


Blood Brothers

by rubygirl29



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Magnificent Seven AU: ATF, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:04:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 53,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4686431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Chris is targeted by an assassin, the team must work with temporary Agent in Charge Sam Colton, to find the sniper and the people who hired him to take down the Magnificent Seven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been promising for a long time to get this up on AO3. Instead of posting chapter by chapter, which would have taken forever, I did it in two fairly long parts. The chapters are designated in the work. 
> 
> This is dedicated to Marti, who needs thoughts and prayers.

[ Beautiful Art by Pamela aka Larawee ](http://fav.me/d97so4i)

Chapter 1

 

Chris Larabee stood on the plaza of the Byron Rogers Federal Building talking on his cell phone; though from the frown creasing his forehead and the severe draw of his mouth, it was more likely that he was arguing with the party on the other end of the line. The wind that seemed to swirl ceaselessly through the plaza lifted the short ends of his blond hair and tugged at his green and black tie. His suit was dark grey; his shirt, a pale moss green. He looked, and he was, as sleek and successful as any bureaucrat on the plaza; only a close observer would have noticed the slight bulge of a service weapon and holster strapped close to his side. 

Across the street, another figure sighted through a high-powered rifle scope. A tiny aperture had been sliced through the reflective glass of a vacant office window three stories above street level. The muzzle of a rifle poked through the glass. The rifle was balanced on a small sandbag set on a rung of a step ladder. The shooter’s knee was braced on another. He waited patiently. Just below his hide, a construction crew was preparing to jackhammer through a cracked concrete pad. 

His target continued talking, the construction chief signaled to the jackhammer operator, unleashing a staccato, deafening cacophony of sound. The shooter steadily, carefully squeezed the trigger … Larabee turned quickly when the jackhammer roared to life, that reflex spoiling the perfect shot. But his knees buckled and he went down. A second bullet struck the pavement a scant inch from his head, sending tiny chips of ice-sharp concrete flying. A woman screamed, the plaza emptied, and Larabee lay bleeding and broken on the ground.

The shooter cursed. He couldn’t be sure his target was eliminated, but he couldn’t stay where he was. He rapidly broke down the rifle and slid it into a specially designed canvas tool bag, along with the small sandbag. He folded the ladder and leaned it against the wall where he had left it the day before. Once outside the room, he took off the paper booties that had covered his shoes and stripped off his black gloves. He flushed the booties down a men’s room toilet and discarded the gloves in a dumpster filled with construction debris from an office under renovation. He exited the building via a door that led to a narrow passage between two buildings. When he stepped out into the light, he was just an anonymous construction worker in coveralls and a painters cap. The job hadn’t been perfect, but it would do. In a few hours he’d be on a plane, his money deposited in an offshore account, and, soon after, he’d be on his way to Argentina with a new alias. 

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Twelve stories above the plaza, Vin Tanner peered at his cell phone. “Chris? Chris? C’mon, don’t know what you’re so damned fired up about. All’s I said was that …” He flipped his phone shut and pushed away from his desk. “Ezra, I’m goin’ down to see what the hell’s the matter with Larabee.” 

“I wish you luck in that endeavor. He has not been in the best temperament of late. He needs a vacation.” 

JD looked up from his computer. “Chris? Vacation? Don’t think those words exactly go together. I can’t remember his last vacation … Buck?”

“Hmm?” 

“When was Chris’s last vacation?”

“Las Vegas. A year ago, January. And if you think he needs another one, remember his mood when he came back … Wasn’t good, JD,” Buck said with a sad shake of his head. “Wasn’t good.” Vin hadn’t been with the team back then. He’d come on board in February, when Larabee’s famous temper had been on the verge of critical mass. Since then, things had settled down, as much as they’d ever settle down, according to Buck Wilmington. 

He’d never ascribed the reason to the presence of the quiet Texan, but Ezra had noticed it. He’d seen the effect Tanner had on Larabee and noted the emotional balance between them. So similar and so different, but the friendship had been as natural as breathing to both men, almost as if they had known each other in a different life. Ezra had puzzled over that relationship, but whatever that relationship was, or might become, it worked. 

Vin looked out the window. A crowd had gathered around something on the plaza and a police presence was suddenly everywhere. Wilmington’s phone rang and he picked it up. Vin saw Buck’s eyes go dark, his face grow pale. “That’s impossible,” he said to whoever was on the other end of the line. “Are you sure?” His eyes met Vin’s, and he hung up the phone. “Chris has been shot down on the plaza.”

Vin didn’t hesitate. He was out of the office and down the hall to the elevators before the others could even react. One opened, and he pulled the startled woman out of it, pressed the button for the third floor. When it stopped, he shoved his way through several people who were waiting there and ran down the stairs to the lobby. 

Outside, the police had set up a perimeter, pushing the crowd back to allow an EMS crew to start treating the injured man. Vin flashed his badge to one of the FBI agents who had been on the scene. She recognized him, waved him forward. “Federal agent coming through,” she ordered. “ATF coming through.”

Vin made it to within three feet of the paramedics before he was brought to a standstill by what he saw. Larabee’s blood was everywhere. The pavement, his clothing, the medics’ hands … But he was still alive. His chest rose and fell, his hands moved feebly. He opened his eyes and looked at Vin; unerringly certain that he was there. Then they closed.

Larabee was loaded into an ambulance; tubes in his arms, wires attached to his chest. Oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. Gauze pads covered his wounds. Alive, for now. 

Vin felt a heavy arm across his shoulders. Buck. 

“Let’s get to the hospital,” Wilmington said. “The cops and the FBI’ll start the investigation. Ezra said he’d stay to help if he could.”

“I’ll git him, Buck. The shit who did this. I’ll git him.” Vin’s voice was soft and deadly. “I swear t’God.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7  
By the time they had arrived at the hospital, Chris was already behind the closed doors of the treatment area. Vin waited while Buck filled out paperwork at the reception desk. 

He sat in a hard plastic chair in a row of other hard plastic chairs. Mercy was a fine medical facility, but their public areas had last been renovated in the early ‘90s and were showing the years of hard wear. No need for frills, he guessed. He’d seen kids bleeding from stab wounds, pregnant women vomiting and winos hawking phlegm on the floors in the ER. Not a place for cushions and amenities. Not much in the way of emotional or physical comfort. He was used to that. 

What he wasn’t used to was a big, warm hand on his shoulder, a deep rumble of a voice. The chair creaked under Josiah’s weight as he sank down. “Any news?”

Vin shook his head. “No. It’s been a long time, Josiah.”

“These things take time.”

“Might not have much time,” Vin whispered. “There was a lot of blood. I’ve seen a lot of men bleed out. Chris was damn close.”

“He’s fightin’, Vin.”

Tanner sighed. “Yeah.” He stared at the tile. It had a tiny pattern of fake stone and made him feel a little dizzy. He got up, paced. 

Josiah frowned. Tanner could be preternaturally still. Josiah had seen him lie unmoving for more than an hour just waiting for the perfect moment to make a shot. That’s what they’d taught him back in sniper training and perfected in the Rangers, but Josiah had a feeling that the roots of Tanner’s stillness came from his past; like a wild creature in hiding from a predator. He didn’t like thinking where that trait had come from in so young a man. But for now, that ability had deserted him, and he was using action to attempt to dispel his fears.

The door to the treatment area opened, and a grave-looking woman in surgical scrubs and a white lab coat stood there. Her dark hair was drawn back severely, emphasizing her sharp features and intelligent, fearless eyes. She knew these men – Chris for a longer time than the others – but she understood them. They exasperated her to no end, but she had more respect for what they did than she would ever let on. She looked down at the paperwork on her clipboard. “Buck?”

Instead of the one man, three stood before her, but she had no doubt that they all had a stake in what she was about to say. “As NoK, I need your signature on these papers before I operate on Agent Larabee.”

“How is he?” Buck asked.

“He needs surgery to repair damage done to several blood vessels and residual tissue damage from bullet fragments. One may have clipped his spleen, which is the source of some blood loss. Right now, that is the big issue. We’ve given him three units of O negative, but it’s not enough for surgery and beyond. There’s a blood crisis and he couldn’t have picked a worse time for this sort of injury.”

“He didn’t pick it!” Buck said angrily. “Some fucking bastard – Sorry, ma’am – but …”

“I’m sorry, it was an unfortunate figure of speech. You know what the problem is; Agent Larabee has a very rare blood type and at this short notice finding a match is going to be nearly impossible.” 

“What’s his blood type?” All eyes turned to Vin’s quiet voice. 

She sighed. The same as yours. B negative.”

“Then give him my blood.”

Elizabeth Stone took a breath. “It’s not that simple. You were just here four months ago, and *you* needed blood!” 

“Look up my records. I was jist back for tests last week. Complete work-up. I’m clear.” There was a steely determination in Tanner’s voice, in his steady gaze. “If Larabee needs blood, give him mine. I got more ‘n enough for us both.”

Dr. Stone looked at the him. She was about to give her answer when her pager went off. She gave it a glance and hurried through the doors. 

“Damn!” Buck ran his hand through his dark hair. He turned away, choked by tears that he didn’t want to others to see. 

Josiah saw. He put a hand on Buck’s shoulder. “He’s alive. He’s fighting.”

Vin remained standing at the desk. Despite the relationships he had forged with his fellow team members, at times he felt as if he were intruding on the long-standing friendship between Chris and Buck. The nearly instantaneous bond between himself and Chris was an anomaly in his life; unlooked for, unexpected, like the glimmer of the Northern Lights. He wasn’t sure how far he could take it without resentment arising between himself and Buck. And now this … the fact that he could save Chris’s life with what gave *him* life. 

The door opened and a nurse looked out. “Mr. Tanner, come with me, please.” Vin started toward the door. Buck caught his arm, halting him, looking into his eyes.

“Thank you.”

Vin shook his head. “S’nothin’ I wouldn’t do for anybody who needed it.”

Buck saw the truth in him, but that it was for Chris made that truth into something deep and strong. “Go on. Save him.”

Vin went with the nurse, aware of the eyes that followed him and the prayers he was carrying over the threshold. 

He was whisked away to the lab for some blood tests, then to the blood bank to donate for Chris. He still hadn’t seen Larabee, but Dr. Stone had said that he was waiting to go up to surgery and holding his own.

Vin reclined on a gurney in the blood bank, watching the slow flow of his blood from his arm through tubes to a machine that the technician told him would separate the red blood cells. She had explained that the concentrated blood was what Chris needed to get him through the surgery, and this procedure would enable Vin to donate two pints of blood instead of the customary one. Another IV was attached to a saline drip to replace his lost fluid. 

It was time consuming, but he didn’t begrudge one second. His blood was rich in color as burgundy wine. His hematocrit was always high; he seemed to latch on to iron better than most, and his oxygen saturation was optimal. One doctor in the army had said he had the blood of Superman. If so, then Chris would be getting the best. Vin clenched his fist, pumping more from his veins. He’d give until he passed out if that’s what it took to save Chris’s life.

Two units of blood later, the nurse pulled the IV and taped up his arm. “You c’n have more,” Vin offered.  
She shook her head. “No dice. Any more and you’ll look like you’ve gone ten rounds with a vampire.” She gave him a cookie.

Vin looked at it skeptically. “Don’t think Dracula would’a offered his victims a cookie when he had a hankerin’ fer blood.” 

“Sorry, I don’t do steaks … or stakes.” She quipped and was rewarded with a slight smile. 

Vin stood up. Steady on his pins. That was good. He would have hated to make a fool of himself by falling flat on his face. “Ma’am, I sure would like to know how my friend is doing.”

“I’ll find out. You take it easy for a while. You won’t be able to donate for at least 16 weeks. Drink lots of liquids. Take iron pills. I’ll have the doctor give you a script if you need one.”

“Nah, I know the drill. I’ve been here before.” He gave her a nod and returned to the waiting room. 

JD and Nathan had joined Buck in their vigil. They all looked up when Vin came through the doors. “Any news?” JD asked, then frowned. “Geez, Vin. You look kinda washed out.”

“Feel like it.” He sat down. Nathan handed him a bottle of water he’d brought from the vending machine. “Thanks.” He cracked the cap and drank deeply. “No news. The nurse said she’d find out for us. Chris is in surgery … that’s all I know.” He sat looking down at the cracks in the tile. Still made him dizzy.

“It’s bad, huh?” 

Vin nodded. “I can’t lie, JD. It’s bad.” 

“Maybe we should call Ezra.”

As if on cue, Standish came into the ER. He looked like a man who had put in too many hours – jaw stubbled, tie askew, eyes red. It was so out of character that they all stared. “How is Agent Larabee?” he rasped. He’d been talking all afternoon and sounded like it.

Buck answered first. “In surgery. Ezra, what the hell is going on?” 

“I wish I knew. There’s nothing to go on. The bullet that impacted on the steps was too damaged for ballistics tests. They need the bullet from Chris’s … from the wound,” he faltered. “Nobody saw anything. Nobody heard anything but the damn jackhammer starting up. No leads. No nothing.”

Vin listened, caught something in Ezra’s narrative that made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He raised his head and looked at his fellow agents. “It wasn’t a random shooting. They waited for the construction crew to drill, then took the shot. They could see the construction foreman, Chris, the whole picture. Tell the cops to start looking at buildings across the plaza. Two or three floors up. Street level wouldn’t have given the shooter the angle he needed.”

They gaped at him. Ezra’s eyes narrowed. “You’re suggesting that Chris was the target of an *assassin?*”

“I’m telling you he was,” Vin said. “I know what I see, what adds up. I ain’t jist a gun, Ezra.” 

Ezra looked vaguely ashamed. “I will take your word on that, Agent Tanner. I will let the police and the FBI know.” He pulled out his cell phone and passed on the information.

They waited. JD paced. Nathan called Rain to see if she could get any updates. Buck pretended to be relaxed, but failed. Josiah sat quietly, eyes closed. Vin thought about what Ezra had told him and tried to visualize the plaza … He didn’t want to admit it, but having that much blood taken out of him was beginning to make itself felt. He hadn’t had dinner, either, and that cookie wasn’t enough to give an ant a sugar high. He knew he should eat something, but there was no hunger in him; just a vague, queasy feeling like being in total darkness with no reference point of light or sound to home in on. That’s what losing Chris would be like. He dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. 

“Vin – ” Nathan was standing over him with a cup of water. “You need to drink this.”

“I ain’t –”

“You are. Drink it.” 

Vin sighed and did as Nathan told him. In truth, the water did taste good. He drained the glass. “Thanks.” He looked up. “Think it’s a good or bad sign we ain’t heard anything?”

“If I was Ezra, I’d say fifty/fifty.” 

“If you were Ezra you’d be fiddlin’ with the odds,” Vin said with a weary smile. He was about to ask Nathan for more water when the doors opened and Dr. Stone stood there, looking if not happy, then satisfied. 

“He’s in recovery. The surgery went well. We were able to stop all the bleeders and remove the bullet fragments. His spleen is intact. It was a miracle that no major organs were compromised. Agent Larabee is a very lucky man.”

“When c’n we see him?” Vin asked. His voice was more raspy than usual and sounded weak to his ears.

“Not tonight. He’s down for the count.”

“I’d like to see him,” Vin said stubbornly. 

Elizabeth Stone sighed. “He’ll be in recovery for at least two hours. Get out of here, eat some red meat for God’s sake before I have to scrape you off the floor. If he’s stable, you can see him when we move him to SICU – for no more than two minutes each. All right?”

“Thanks, Doc.” 

If every woman in the hospital had seen those smiles, their hearts would have melted. She was made of sterner stuff, yet she still felt a prickle behind her eyes. “Go. Get out.” She turned on her heel and headed back into the treatment area.

They would have celebrated if the thought that Chris had been the focus of a murder attempt hadn’t been on all of their minds. Despite that, the news that their leader was alive and likely to remain that way, brought a lightness to their steps as they left the hospital. 

Two hours later, they were back. Fed and more relaxed, but still filling the small SICU waiting room with enough masculine tension to be palpable to Elizabeth Stone as she told them they could start visiting Chris. “He’s under heavy sedation, so don’t expect any response from him. Say ‘Hi. Get well.’ And then leave, okay?”

“Vin, you want to go first?” Buck asked.

“I’ll wait. Go on, Buck.”

One by one, the others took their turn, returning, relieved but sobered by the gravity of what they had seen. Then Vin was led back to the small, glass-walled cubicle where Chris lay.

Chris always seemed bigger than life; not because he was a big man, but because of the strength and authority he carried with him; it was in his eyes, his stride, the set of his shoulders. Vin had seen him walk into a room full of high-powered politicians and bureaucrats and make them look small and insignificant by comparison. But here, in this tiny space, surrounded by medical devices and wrapped in blankets, he looked fragile. 

Vin looked at the IV pump with a bag of his blood hung from it. He followed the line lightly with his fingertip; from the pump to where it disappeared beneath tape on the back of Chris’s hand. 

“’Member how kids used ta cut their thumbs and press it to their best friend’s and say they was blood brothers? Ya got more’n a few drops of my blood in you. I mean, I’ve done my share of givin’ blood, but this means somethin’. I reckon we’re blood brothers, now.”

He touched Chris’s fingertips, and was startled when he felt them twitch. Chris’s eyes opened enough to show a small slit of jade green and his lips curved. Vin shook his head. “Don’t say anything, Chris, or Doc Stone will have my hide fer wakin’ ya. We got time to figure things out.”

Larabee gave a barely perceptible nod. His eyes closed and he went away. The monitor continued to show a strong, steady heartbeat and good blood pressure. Vin left, feeling reassured and utterly exhausted.

When they stepped out into the parking lot, Josiah laid a big hand on Vin’s shoulder. “C’mon, brother. I’ll drive you home.”

“My jeep’s at the office.”

“It can stay there. I’ll pick you up in the morning. You aren’t driving anywhere tonight.” 

Under any other circumstances, Vin would have argued. But Josiah’s blue eyes were concerned and his voice was grave and kind. Vin sighed in resignation. “Thanks, J’siah.”

Buck nodded. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us. I want that bastard whoever he is. I’ll be in that office coordinating with the police and FBI at the crack of dawn. I want you all to be there.”

“We will be there with bells on,” Ezra said grimly, “And thus, I depart to the arms of Morpheus.”

“Why can’t he just say goodnight?” JD grumbled.

Buck laughed. “Kid, then he wouldn’t be Ezra. Let’s go home.”

“I ain’t a kid,” JD began his usual complaint about his nickname and he and Buck genially argued their way across the parking lot.

“Ezra can have Morpheus. I’m going home to the arms of my wife,” Nathan said. “See y’all tomorrow.”

“G’night, Nate.” Vin raised his hand followed Josiah to his Suburban. They made the drive without conversation. He was too tired to talk and Josiah knew when a man needed silence. He didn’t speak until they said goodnight. 

As he made his way up the four flights of stairs to his apartment, he was aware of Josiah waiting for him to signal his safe arrival. It was a good feeling to know that even without Chris, somebody was watching his back. He flicked the light on and off, and locked up after the Suburban was out of sight.

He felt tired, gritty. It was late enough that there would probably be hot water for a shower and as tired as he was, he wanted to be clean. He’d had enough times in his life when the only wash-up available was a quick splash in cold, dirty, water. 

He stood under the steaming water, soaped up, washed his hair. He wrapped himself in his old terry bathrobe, poured himself a beer and sat in the flickering light of his TV. They were showing a documentary about the Old West. Vin turned the sound to low at watched the faded images. Wyatt Earp, Wild Bill Hickock, Buffalo Bill … Billy the Kid and Pat Garrett. Good guys and bad. Seemed like they were still playing on the same field. 

Vin pulled an afghan from the back of the sofa and lay down. He had a bedroom and a bed, but spent most of his nights on the couch with the TV flickering in silence. He was weary and hurting, but at least he wasn’t mourning the loss of his blood brother. He curled up and fell asleep, peaceful in the knowledge that he’d saved a precious life.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Vin woke before dawn. He ached. He was tired. Bleeding out two units of blood would do that to you. He made coffee, took a quick, chilly shower to banish the cobwebs and caught a bus to the office. He wasn’t alone. The Federal building was never quiet. The FBI, Homeland Security, ATF and several other agencies weren’t 9 to 5 operations. The guard checked Vin’s ID, regulations overcoming the ease of familiarity, but he nodded, acknowledging the acquaintance. 

He swiped his key card and opened the office. It was empty. None of his fellow agents were in yet; not surprising seeing as it was barely 7am, and Buck, despite his vows to be here at the crack of dawn usually meant before 8:30, not the literal moment the sun touched the horizon. Vin brewed up the first of the day’s multiple pots of coffee. He turned on his computer and logged on. The first reports from yesterday had been entered. Vin leaned forward and started reading. It was a laborious process, but he forced himself to concentrate, to make the words form a picture in his mind. When he had finished, he went to the window and looked at the surrounding buildings. The east and west buildings could be discounted. The shooter wouldn’t have had a clear line of sight from them … not from the lower floors. The angle precluded anything over the fourth story. 

That left the building to the north. Vin’s eyes narrowed. He went to his desk and pulled out his binoculars. He focused on the freshly poured concrete, then slowly raised his line of sight. It looked like several offices were being renovated. As soon as he could, he’d do a reconnaissance.

He went back to his desk and sipped his coffee, thinking. At 8am, he called the hospital and asked for an update on Chris’s condition. Still in SICU, but stable. They couldn’t give any information on any move to a regular room at this time. 

Buck, JD, and Nathan wandered in at 8am. They all looked as weary and heavy-eyed as he felt. Josiah arrived shortly after, followed by Ezra, the only one of them who seemed as if he’d had enough sleep. Compared to Standish’s designer suit and crisp shirt, Vin felt rough and unkempt. Not that he particularly cared. He could get the job done as well as any man and better than most. 

“What time did you get here?” Josiah asked him.

Vin shrugged. “Earlier.”

“I said I’d give you a ride.”

“Hell, I couldn’t sleep and didn’t see much point in wakin’ ya up. So I figured I’d get a head start on things. I checked in on Chris. Not much news but that he’s stable.”

“I don’t suppose you had breakfast?”

Vin shrugged. “Wasn’t hungry, I reckon.”

It wasn’t the answer Nathan wanted to hear. “Ezra, go down to Marty’s and get a spinach omelet, juice, and whole wheat toast for Vin.”

Ezra sighed. “And I suppose all of you gentlemen have a taste for various other delicacies?” They did. From wheat toast and oatmeal for Josiah and Nathan, to steak and eggs for Buck and a cinnamon roll for JD. Ezra held out his hand. “My last venture in Vegas was somewhat less profitable than I would have liked.”

They passed over money, but when Vin dug into his pockets, Ezra stopped him. “This, my friend, is on me.” 

“On us,” Buck amended. The others nodded.

“Thanks.” Vin looked away, embarrassed. They were only talking about a few cents towards breakfast, but he knew that was just a token of what they felt. He would have turned down anything more than that. He hadn’t given Chris’s blood because he expected anything. He’d done it for friendship, and because Chris would have done the same thing for him. 

After Ezra returned with the food, Vin asked Buck to run interference for him with the Denver PD and the FBI, so he could get access to the crime scene. He had to get into that building and take a look. Nobody could do what he could. He was trained to see things the way a sniper did; he could use his instincts to track his opponent – not his physical movements – his mental processes. A man with a plan didn’t vary his routine. Vin had learned to shoot in the wild, where plans didn’t apply, the laws of nature did. In the service he was told that a target was supposed to be at a specific place at a specific time, but he never forgot his lessons from the wild and learned to plan, but also to adapt both before and after he made his shot. 

“Vin? Vin?” 

Buck’s voice made him jump. “What?” 

“You’re clear, but not until after noon. The DPD is still collecting prints.”

“Aw, Hell. They ain’t gonna find the shooter’s.”

“You don’t know --”

“I *do* know. This guy’s a pro, he ain’t gonna leave prints,” Vin said patiently. 

“We’ll just have to let the DPD find that out for themselves,” Buck didn’t question Vin’s assessment. “But until then, I thought I’d go over and see Chris. You comin’ with me?”

Vin took a last hard look at the office building across the plaza. “Let’s go.”  
Chapter 2

Everything hurt. The good news was that it meant he was alive. The bad news was that he’d have to go through the agonizing process of healing, recovery, rehab … the whole nine yards. He’d been there before. He forced his eyes to open. Heavy. Like sandbags on his lids. But he managed. His room was in semi-darkness. It was either late in the day or very early in the morning. 

Hospital smells and sounds. The steady beep of monitoring equipment, an IV in his arm dripping clear fluid and another filled with red blood. Christ. Blood. The memories of the previous day came back with sudden clarity. He remembered being on the plaza, arguing with Vin about something … paperwork on a case … something he couldn’t quite remember. Then he thought somebody had hit him, and the next thing he knew, he was in the hospital. He thought Vin had been with him at some point. Something nagged at him. Vin. Blood. Something about Vin’s file … He gave up. Thinking was too exhausting. He lost the battle against the sandbags on his eyelids, and they closed. He was alive …

The nurse woke him for his vitals. It was lighter, and when she opened the blinds, watery sunlight flowed into the room. “What … what day is it?” Chris asked, his voice weak, scarcely a whisper. 

She turned and looked at him, smiling. “Good morning. It’s Thursday.” 

“I’ve been here since …?” 

“Just since yesterday.”

“Good.” 

“Yesterday, we didn’t think you’d make it.”

Chris would have laughed. “Hope you didn’t put any money on it.”

A slight rustle of starched fabric at the door and a faint floral scent floated in. “I told her not to bother.”

Chris’s mouth twitched. “Doc Stone.” 

“Mr. Larabee.” She frowned at his chart. “If Vin Tanner hadn’t showed up at the hospital, Ms. Powers would be counting her winnings.” 

“Vin?”

“The odds against a member of your team having the exact, very rare blood-type are astronomical. But it happened. He direct donated two units of platelets.” 

It was a lot of blood. “Christ. Is *he* all right?”

“Somewhat pale, but upright. I promise. Now about you,” she sighed. “I can’t believe how lucky you are. The bullet didn’t compromise any major organs. It nicked your spleen, but we were able to control the bleeding. There is some significant soft tissue damage and you have two broken ribs. It is going to be a long recovery.”

“How long?” Chris asked.

“Two months at the least.” 

He cursed softly and mentally began re-arranging his calendar.

“Stop re-arranging your calendar, Agent Larabee,” Dr. Stone said. “You have to let somebody else take care of that. What you have to do is get well, not go chasing after trouble.”

Chris didn’t think he chased trouble. It chased him, found him, and left him bleeding in its wake. Damn. 

“I’m having you moved to a medical/surgical floor. Your public can visit you, there.” She closed the chart. “Winnie, as soon as there’s a bed available, call transport for Mr. Larabee. And you … obey orders or risk coming back up here.”

“Doc, I don’t have the strength to cause any trouble.”

“Unfortunately, if we do our jobs, you will.” She gave him a wry smile. “I’ve known you for a while, so don’t play the wounded innocent with me.”

Chris was too tired to argue, even in jest. He closed his eyes and the last thing he remembered was the scent of her perfume and the fading click of her heels as she went down the hall to bedevil her next patient.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Buck and Vin arrived at the hospital just as Chris was being transferred from SICU. They spent a good half hour in a waiting for the medical staff to settle him in bed before they were allowed to see him. They stood outside the door; Buck looking up and down the hallway, Vin frowning at the distance from the nurses station and the proximity to an exit door. Neither man looked happy.

Buck was worrying at the end of his moustache, a sure sign of agitation. “I’m not likin’ this security-wise. I’m gonna call Travis to see if he can’t set up protection.” 

Vin nodded. “Ya read my mind.”

“You go see Chris. I’ll get on the security situation with Travis.”

Vin went into Chris’s room with some trepidation. He had been in hospitals enough himself. He’d never been too happy to have visitors – not that he had family, and his only friends had been his Ranger teammates, who had often been as fucked-up as himself – when he felt like he’d been trampled by a herd of buffalo and then run over by a semi. Chris was mighty touchy when he had one of his migraines, so God only knew what he’d be like now. 

Right now, Larabee was flat on his back, his eyes closed. Vin sat cautiously on the single hard chair. There was no blood on the IV pump, just fluids and a small pouch of what Vin figured were antibiotics. Chris had good color in his face, but the lines at the corners of his mouth were deep and the shadows beneath his eyes were like bruises. Pain did that, Vin knew. He slouched down and crossed his arms, closed his eyes, trying to tamp down the anger he felt rising. Emotion would just cloud his perceptions. 

“You’re a lousy visitor,” Chris whispered, his voice weak, but clear. 

Vin laughed. “Hell, I’ve heard tell you’re a lousy patient.” 

Chris grunted in amusement, clearly in too much pain to laugh. He looked at Vin, his eyes glinting. “You get the bastard? Was anybody else hurt?”

“Chris … it wasn’t a random shooting. Nobody else was hurt. You were the target.”

It wasn’t unexpected, but he wouldn’t be human if the idea hadn’t given him a shiver. “Who and why?”

“Don’t know. Right now, ‘til I can get to where the shooter was, all I can tell you is he was a pro. Maybe even ex-military. A sniper. You get any threatening emails or phone calls lately?

Chris shook his head. “Nothing …” His voice was weakening … or uncertain.

“What?”

“Some hang-ups on my home phone. I figured they were wrong numbers since … How many calls do you get on your home phone?” he asked, changing the direction of Vin’s questions.

“Landlord. You. Doc Stone.” He grinned at Larabee’s expression. “I think she likes me.” 

Chris did laugh, then, grimacing in pain, but still unable to resist. “More likely she’s keeping tabs on her investment … rare blood types are like gold to her.”

“Don’t dis my blood, Larabee. You an’ me … reckon we’re blood brothers.” 

Chris sobered, looked into Vin’s eyes. His hand caught Tanner’s wrist. “Thank you.” 

Vin felt his cheeks warm in embarrassment. He tried to shrug it off. “Go figger the odds.”

“That’s what Dr. Stone says. But that doesn’t mean I don’t owe you.”

“Two units, Chris. That’s *all* you ‘owe’ me.” For some reason Vin felt anger at Chris’s gratitude. Christ on a crutch! That’s the last thing he wanted from this friendship. Gratitude – what a washed out, pallid excuse for an emotion … 

“Vin – ”

“I’m sorry, Chris. Between the blood and no sleep, I ain’t thinkin’ too clearly. I’m jist glad I’s there. Blood or not, you’re my friend.” 

Chris’s fingers tightened, this time around his forearm, and Vin returned the grip. Chris was slightly mystified by Vin’s irritation at his gratitude. Buck would have accepted it as his due … and maybe that was the root of the problem. Buck drank in gratitude like rainwater, and then spread the largesse to all around him. To Vin, gratitude was weak … owing somebody meant being subordinate until that debt was paid. He still hadn’t lost that distrust even after a year with the team. Chris hoped that with time those scars would fade. “Call it even?” he asked.

“I c’n do that.”

“Buck come with you?”

“Yeah.” Vin looked uneasy.

“What?”

“Don’t git ballistic on me, Larabee. He’s settin’ up security. Yer too damn far from the nurses station, and too close to an exit. Somebody tried to kill you, and we don’t want them getting’ another chance at it ‘til we c’n figger out what the hell’s goin’ on.”

Chris didn’t like it, but he had to admit that he’d rest easier for it. He intended to heal more quickly than Dr. Stone had predicted, but he also knew how he felt, and right now, he felt like somebody had lit a fire in his gut. He’d been injured more times than he liked to recall in his life; a gunshot wound wasn’t a novelty and neither was the convalescence. 

“Do it,” he agreed. “I need to see Buck.”

Vin nodded and stood. “We got yer back, Chris. And I swear I’ll find who did this.”

Chris grimaced as a vicious twinge of pain shot through him. “Feel free to make the son of a bitch suffer.”

“I got my ways,” Vin said, and Chris didn’t doubt it one bit. “You hang on, Chris.”

“I’m working on it.” As soon as Vin was out the door, he hit the morphine pump and closed his eyes.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7  
Buck was worried. Travis had agreed to arrange protection at the hospital, but he hadn’t *seen* Chris, hadn’t seen how fragile the man was. When Elizabeth Stone had told them it would be weeks before Chris was able to return to work, Buck had dismissed the estimate as an exaggeration. But now, looking at his best friend, Buck was afraid that it might have been generous. Chris looked like hell, and he wasn’t as young as he used to be; healing came harder and slower when you got older. Buck knew that from his own experiences. When he had expressed that concern to Travis, he had said that the ATF head honchos would be “considering their options.” Options that could mean Buck’s temporary promotion into Chris’s job, or a possible re-assignment of an SAC from another office. Buck didn’t know which he dreaded more. He stood by the window, which had a view of the city sprawl and the far blue foothills of the Rockies, and pondered the choices he was likely to have to make.

“Buck?” 

He turned from the window at the sound of Chris’s whisper. “Hey, old son. How are you feeling?”

“Don’t feel much thanks to the morphine,” Chris said. “But shitty, in general.”

“Junior tell you that this wasn’t a random shooting?”

“Yeah. But right now, nothing’s making much sense.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Buck said with a worried tug at his moustache. “You’d tell us if something did start addin’ up, right?”

“You think I want that bastard on the loose?” Chris growled with some of his old asperity, and Buck had to smile. 

“If Vin has any say in it, he’ll be wrapped up and delivered to the authorities one way or another.”

“I wouldn’t mind if it was another,” Chris admitted with a grimace of pain. “Shit.”

“Just be still, Chris. Getting’ all riled up ain’t gonna sit well with your innards all tore up like they are.”

Chris frowned at him, trying to figure out what Buck wasn’t saying. “Anything else bothering you?”

“Nothing that can’t wait.” Chris could still raise his eyebrow and glare. Buck gave it up. “Travis is talking about getting in a temporary SAC from another office.”

Chris nodded, surprising the hell out of Wilmington. “Might not be a bad idea.”

“Chris …”

“C’mon, Buck. Don’t tell me that you *like* being in the hot seat.”

Buck laughed. “Ya got that right, partner. But I don’t like the idea of anybody else being behind that particular desk but you. It ain’t something any of us like thinking about.”

Even though Chris appreciated the sentiment, he knew he couldn’t afford it. “Trust Travis. I tell you, Buck. I’m not so young that I’m denying my mortality like I did in the SEALs. It’s gonna be a while before I’m up to speed.”

“You heal fast.”

“Yeah, but you and I both know that time ain’t on our side,”

Buck stood over the bed, looking down at his best friend. “I’ve done enough jawing for now. You won’t heal at all if I don’t shut up and let you get your beauty sleep.”

“Yeah, like that’s going to help.”

Buck laughed, and as he left, he whistled the Garth Brooks tune, “I’m much too young to feel this damn old.” This time, when he closed his eyes, Chris fell asleep. 

7*7*7*7*7*7*7  
Vin stood at the spot where Chris had fallen, binoculars in hand. He raised them to his eyes and scanned the building across the street. The more he looked, the more he was certain that the shooter was a pro. No way a crackpot with some sort of crazy agenda could have hit one target – not with traffic on the street and people milling around on the plaza – and then fled without leaving a trace. Almost. Vin held his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the second floor windows facing the plaza. Nothing. He raised the angle to the third floor. Slowly, he scanned the windows, pausing finally. The glass showed a faint imperfection … he tightened the focus. Not an imperfection. The glass had been cut out; the diameter just wide enough to allow the barrel of a rifle to fit it. No silencer. Smart shooter knew that silencers could affect his zero. Damn, a pro for sure. 

He drew a breath and crossed the street, pulled his badge and showed it to the DPD officer standing at the entrance to the office building. The cop stepped aside and Vin went over to the ATF evidence tech who was waiting for him. “Hey, Kerry.”

“How’s Agent Larabee?” she asked.

“Doin’ all right. Out of ICU and onto a medical floor. But it’ll be a while.”

“Bastard.” The realizing how that sounded, she blushed. “Not him. The shooter.”

Vin nodded in comprehension. “Yeah. Let’s get him.”

They went up to the third floor. The hall was blocked off with yellow crime scene tape. Kerry ducked under and Vin followed her to an office door sealed with tape. Kerry cut it. “This is it.”

“Yeah, I saw the hole in the glass from outside.” He stepped over the threshold, caught Kerry’s arm. “How many have been through here?”

“Me, the FBI techs. We dusted for fingerprints – they’re being processed, but most of the will probably belong to workmen. They had plaster in the ridges and most were pretty smudged.”

“The floor?”

“No shoe prints.”

Vin slid on gloves and went inside. There was plastic on the floor and the walls were primed. Dry wall had been taped. Vin touched some of the compound. It left a bit of white powder on this fingers. Dry. A step ladder stood in the corner by the window. “You dust the ladder?”

She nodded. “Nothing.” 

“Nothing?” Vin raised his brows. “No prints?”  
“No.” Her eyes met his. “He brought it in?”

“Better take it to a lab. See what other residue might be on it.” Kerry got out her cell phone and made a call to the lab to send somebody over to collect the ladder. 

“He had to rest the rifle on somethin’,” Vin said. “Couldn’t bring in a tripod.” He closed his eyes. “He set it up. Rested the rifle at a comfortable level, marked the glass and cut it. Made it real easy to set up. Jist stood there, one knee on a step, rifle on another, maybe a … a small sandbag or beanbag to steady the muzzle. He jist sighted and waited.” He turned to her, his blue eyes shadowed. “Did your guys do a sweep of the building … exits … dumpsters?”

“C’mon, Tanner. Give me a break. We’re not exactly amateurs,” Kerry said with some heat. “And Chris … I mean Agent Larabee, he’s one of us. The good guys.”

“Yeah, he is.” Vin made a last visual sweep of the office. Nothing. Unless there was something on the ladder … a hair, some fiber … anything … they were without a clue. Vin made a mental note to talk to to the FBI and DPD. Maybe one of the workmen had seen somebody. But on a job site like this, he doubted anybody would have noticed, particularly if they hired day workers to do scut work. “Let’s go. Fax me the report about the ladder.”

Kerry nodded. “This is going to be a tough one, isn’t it?”

Tanner shrugged. “Somebody had to hire him. The guy was a pro. Ain’t many good enough to make that shot.”

Kerry had to bite her lip to keep from asking if he was one of those men. She was willing to bet he was; given his reputation and the rumors flying around the office when he was hired. But now, he looked tired, lethal. “You ready to go?” she asked.

He gave one last look at the room. He thought he’d feel something, but nothing spoke to him. It was as if it had been empty for a century. “Without physical evidence, I reckon we’ll have to count on JD and Buck. ‘Tween the two of ‘em, they oughtta come up with something or somebody.”

“It’s scary, you know … somebody out there just shooting …” She faltered, remembering that Tanner was one of those men who brought unsuspecting death. “Sorry.”

Vin gave her a half-smile. “Don’t pay no mind, Kerry. I know what ya mean. But if it makes ya feel better, jist remember, it takes one t’know one.” He straightened from his slouch. “Let’s go. Ain’t nothing getting done here.” 

Chapter 3

Orrin Travis took a manila personnel file from the man standing in front of him. He didn’t open it, just set it down on his desk and laid his hands over it. “It’s been a long time, Sam,” he said. He took off his glasses, stood and held out his hand. “Welcome to Denver.”

SAC Sam Colton shook Travis’s hand. “Yes, sir. You went west. I went east.”

Travis smiled. “It’s good to see you.” He appraised Colton. “You look -- ”

Colton laughed. “I look like hell.” 

Travis would have argued, but only a fool would say the passage of time didn’t matter. Fifteen years ago, He had been SAC in Wichita and Sam Colton had been his second-in-command. Back then Travis’s hair had been black, his eyesight 20/20, and he could outshoot just about any agent on his team but Colton. Sam was five years out of ATF training after a ten-year hitch with the Marines, most spent as a scout/sniper, and he was the best natural shooter Travis had seen until Vin Tanner had crossed his threshold. 

Travis appraised Sam, studying the changes in him. Colton would never have the rapier elegance of Chris Larabee. At forty-five, he was a powerfully built man; his thick, dark hair was showing grey at the temples. He looked like he was sprouting steel wool for a 5 o’clock shadow. His hazel eyes were set beneath heavy brows and were dark-circled and weary. But their expression was warm, his smile genuine. 

“We’re none of us as young as we used to be. Thank you for filling in on such short notice.”

“I’m six weeks from retiring, Orrin.”

Travis’s eyes flickered. “You’re a young man, Sam. Why leave now?”

“I’ve had an offer from a private security firm. More pay, fewer hours, less chance of ending up on the wrong end of a gun.”

“Your decision?”

“Partly. Orrin, I’ve got two sons to raise. Since Lauren …” Sam looked down briefly breaking eye contact. “They need stability. They need a father, not a man who’s on call 24/7 and might never come home.”

Travis thought of Chris Larabee, who’d made a different choice and lost everything, and of his own son, murdered because of what he did for a living. It was pretty hard to fault a man for wanting a normal life – as normal as it could be when you lost a wife and a mother to cancer. “It’s good to have you on board. It’s not a bad case to go out on.” 

“This Chris Larabee. He’s got a legend to his name. So does his team. ‘The Magnificent Seven.’ You must love that.”

Travis smiled. “As long as they live up to their billing … and believe me, they do.” He stood up. “Shall we go down to meet them?” Travis opened the door and Sam followed him, wondering what the hell he was getting into. 

On the way down, Travis briefed him on the six men on the team he’d be working with.  
7*7*7*7*7*7*7  
Ever since Sam had submitted his intent to retire to his superior in Boston, he had the feeling that the man was giving him the bum’s rush. Sure, he wanted to get a new SAC in place before Sam left, but when his superior had slapped down the envelope containing this assignment on his desk, it had hit with a sharp crack like the guillotine. Sam had opened that envelope with shaking hands.

Damn. It wasn’t that bad. Travis was his first mentor, a man he respected, a leader he’d followed. But Team Seven had a formidable reputation, and when he’d looked at Chris Larabee’s file … He hadn’t used the term ‘legend’ lightly. He wasn’t sure he wanted to fill those shoes, even temporarily. 

Travis entered the Team Seven offices first, with Sam a step or two behind him. The office was generic: an outer office with six desks and computers. An inner office with the name “Chris Larabee” stenciled on the glass backed by narrow-slatted blinds and flanked by narrow, full length glass panels. No plants. A bulletin board with the FBI’s Most Wanted list tacked on it along with a variety of staff updates and take-out menus, which spoke of long office hours. The walls were a typically cool gray, which fitted the atmosphere of the room at the moment. 

Five men. Sam scanned them, meeting each man’s eyes squarely. No open hostility; that was good, but a lot of wariness in those expressions. He waited for Travis to speak.

“You all know that Chris will be out for at least six weeks; possibly more. If this were solely a medical issue, I might not even call in for a replacement, but due to the criminal investigation, I felt the team would benefit from having an experienced and impartial SAC on board.” 

Sam watched the reactions. Two, the grey-haired profiler, Josiah Sanchez, and the impressive black man next to him seemed the most accepting of Travis’s statement. The handsome man in the impeccable suit looked skeptical, the youngest member of the team reminded Sam of one of his sons waiting for some sort of reprimand. The tall man standing behind him was Buck Wilmington, Larabee’s SiC, and if anybody had a right to be resentful, he did; but to Sam’s surprise, Wilmington was regarding him with a cool, non-judgmental expression, waiting for Travis to continue.

“I wanted the best --”

Sam was uncomfortable. He spoke up. “Orrin, I’m not the second coming. Let’s just get this business over with. Gentlemen, I’m Sam Colton. I’ve been SAC in Boston for ten years and I’m due to retire in six weeks, right about the time you’re ready to throw me out. So, let’s find the bastard who did this.” He paused and looked around. “Aren’t there six of you?”

“Um … yeah.” Buck rose slowly. “Agent Tanner went on a walk-through of the crime scene with one of our evidence techs. Should be back soon.”

“Good. Send him in as soon as he gets back.” He ran a hand over his thick hair, rumpling it, and realized that Travis was still in the office. “Orrin, thank you. I guess we’ll just get down to business.”

Travis smiled with his eyes. “I’ll let you do that. You know my number. Gentlemen,” he nodded at the team and left.

And then Sam was left in the lion’s den. He took a breath. “I’m sorry to meet under these circumstances. I trust you to do your jobs. Despite what Travis said, none of us can be impartial – not when one of our own is involved. I’m here to work with you, I’m not here to replace Agent Larabee. I’m here to get him back to you.” He looked at the five men who he had to lead. He didn’t know who was more reluctant. He hadn’t thought this would be easy. He didn’t think it would be this hard, though. 

It was Nathan who made the first move. He stood up and came over to Sam. “That’s good enough for me. Just tell us what we can do.” 

Sam shook his hand. The others followed, and Sam made mental notes, matching names and faces with the information he’d gotten from Travis. All except the sharpshooter, Vin Tanner. The introductions finished, Sam turned to Buck. “Agent Wilmington, I need updates on the investigation and the status of any other operations that need to be cleared in the next two weeks.”

Buck ran a finger across his moustache. “Sir …”

*God,* Sam thought. *Here we go …* “Any objections?”

“No, sir. Just that …” He looked around at the others. “We’ve been together a while. If you call us ‘Agent’, well, we just might not respond. Buck’ll do just fine for me. I’m not gonna speak for the others.” He glanced around, “Think we can go by first names here?” 

The others seemed to concur, even if Agent Standish seemed more reluctant than the others. Judging from the formality of his attire, it might just have been his nature and Sam could respect that. But all in all, he felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “That will work for me. Sam’s a plain name and I’m not one to stand on ceremony. Buck, bring those reports in as soon as you have them put together.” 

He went inside the office and closed the door. It was pretty generic, like most offices Sam had occupied over the years. A large desk. File cabinets. A sofa that looked like the springs had long ago lost their strength to support a man’s frame. A knitted afghan was half-shoved underneath it. So, Larabee spent nights here when he had to. Sam was no stranger to a schedule like that. He studied the numerous citations displayed on the walls; mostly belonging to the team, but two had been awarded to Tanner; one for conspicuous valor, the other for superior marksmanship in a national competition. Impressive. Larabee seemed content to keep his own accolades to a minimum. 

A door revealed a small bathroom. A luxury for a government office, but the building was newer than many Sam had been in. Curious, he opened the medicine chest and nearly laughed. If he had taken a picture of his medicine cabinet and pasted it on the wall, the contents would have been nearly exact. Excedrin Migraine, antacids, vitamins, first aid supplies, an electric razor. He closed the cabinet and returned to the office. A stack of manila folders was on the desk next to a computer. A desk calendar and stainless steel pen holder that had been engraved with the ATF logo sat at the front of the desk. There were two framed photographs on Larabee’s desk. One showed two men in dark military fatigues standing in front of the SEALs training base in Coronado, California. One was clearly Buck Wilmington, the other was blond with a lithe, athletic build. The other photograph was a family portrait; the same blond man standing next to a beautiful red-haired woman and a small towheaded boy. 

Sam felt a heaviness in his heart. What had happened to Sarah and Adam Larabee had spread like wildfire through the ATF community. There wasn’t an active agent untouched by the horrific tragedy. For a while, rumors had circulated that Larabee had gone over the edge, drank himself into obscurity until Orrin Travis had somehow resurrected him, built a team around him, and made them the gold standard. Sam hadn’t exaggerated when he spoke of Larabee’s near legendary status. 

Sam set his briefcase on the desk and took out a framed picture of his own. Two dark-haired boys and his wife looked out at him. Michael, James, and his late wife, Lauren. His angel. It was an old picture. His boys were nearly grown now; Dustin in college, Ryan finishing up high school, but they still needed a father. Looking at Sarah and Adam Larabee only reaffirmed his own decision to get out before he, too, was taken down by an assassin’s bullet. 

Right now, work was waiting. He set the photograph on his desk, logged on to Larabee’s computer using the passwords Travis had supplied and began catching up on his new assignment.  
7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Vin opened the door to the office and was greeted by an uncharacteristic silence that was broken only by the tapping of computer keys and muted conversation. Ezra was hunched over his keyboard, JD was staring at a screen that displayed some sort of spreadsheet. Nathan and Josiah were conducting a low-voiced consultation, and Buck sat staring at the inner office door. An inner office door with somebody sitting at Chris’s desk. Vin’s chest felt tight.

“Who’s in there?” he asked, his voice rasping with tension.

“Chris’s temp SAC,” Buck replied. 

“Who’d they send?” 

Vin’s voice was hard, and Buck could see the tension in his upper body and hands. Hell, he was back where he was nearly a year ago ago when Buck had first seen him and had witnessed the inexplicable and immediate bond with Chris.

“An agent named Sam Colton. Hand picked by Travis.” He said it as if that would make the man’s presence in Chris’s office all right. 

Sam Colton. The name tugged at Vin’s memories. Something … Quantico? The Marine sniper range? “Damn,” Vin breathed. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah.” Buck straightened in his chair, alert for bad news. “You heard of him?”

“Shit, yeah. Ya know how I go to Quantico twice a year to shoot? Well, I don’t use the FBI range, I use the range at the Marine base. There’s plaques on the wall. More’n one’s got Colton’s name on ‘em. If yer a shooter, ya know Colton.”

“He better than you?” JD asked, suddenly interested.

“Don’t know. I was a Ranger. We used the range down at Benning. I reckon we’re about even – ya won’t find my name on any plaques at Quantico, but I shoot near 100 percent. So did Colton.” 

“You know anything else about him?”

Vin shook his head. “Nothing good, nothing bad.” He cast a look at the office and the shadowy figure inside.

“His record is good,” JD added. “No red flags.”

“You looked?” Buck asked incredulously. 

JD rolled his eyes. “Well, sure. Nobody else did. And don’t worry, I didn’t leave any electronic footprints,” he said with a bit of asperity. “Geez, give me some credit.”

Since this had all the signs of blowing up into one of Buck and JD’s round-robin arguments Vin broke in. “I reckon he wants to see me. Might as well get this over with,” he sighed.

Josiah, who had been silent finally spoke up quietly. “He’s a temp, Vin. Chris’ll be back. Colton isn’t looking to take his place.”

Vin couldn’t give voice to his fears. Just because a man wasn’t looking to move in didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen. Only a flaw in the shooter had saved Chris. Next time, he might not be so lucky. Vin gave Josiah a hard look and squared his shoulders. He knocked on the door. When Colton said to enter, he did. He stood at the desk, thinking it wasn’t so long ago that he’d done the same thing, only the man sitting there wasn’t Chris, and that made all the difference in the world. 

“Sir, you wanted to see me?” 

Sam looked at the young man in front of him. Slim, average height, standing military straight and looking wary and uncomfortable. Sam held out his hand. “You must be Vin Tanner. You’ve got quite a reputation.” 

Vin wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he returned the firm handshake. “Sir, I’ve seen your name on the wall at Quantico range.” 

Sam had to smile, oddly pleased that Tanner had noticed that. “It was a long time ago. Please, have a seat. I’ve already told the others that first names are fine, if you’re comfortable with that.”

“I can be.” Vin sat, studying Colton without seeming to. The man wasn’t giving off any bad vibes. He looked solid, steady. Chris’s picture of his family was still on his desk, next to one of Colton’s. Vin guessed it was a few years old, judging from the slightly faded colors. He found a comfort in that similarity with Chris. 

Sam noticed the study, but he figured Tanner had earned the right to take his measure. “I heard you were out at the crime scene. Want to tell me about that?”

“Well, sir, there ain’t much to tell. The shooter was a pro. I’m guessin’ for hire. The bastard didn’t leave prints, either. No impressions from shoes, so he musta had ‘em covered with booties. I’m thinkin’ he dressed like a construction worker, but there’s day labor on the site, so nobody saw anybody who didn’t b’long on the job.”

Sam nodded. “Not much to go on, is there?”

Vin shrugged. “If the guy’s a pro, we might get lucky with some NCIC databases. We got a real good computer guy out there, JD Dunne. He could come up with somethin’. The others … they’ve been with Chris longer’n me and might recall some old cases Chris worked on.”

“You’ve been thinking about this,” Sam observed. 

Vin blushed. “I owe Chris a lot. Seems like the least I can do for him.” He met Colton’s eyes and saw sympathy and anger there. 

“You have free rein to do what has to be done … you and the others. I’ll help in any way I can. Just don’t make the mistake of thinking that I’m just a rubber stamp. If I go out, I want to go out with this case on my record.”

Vin met those dark amber eyes. This man wasn’t a showboater, he wasn’t a fool, he wasn’t a puppet sent to occupy a desk. He was a man with as many medals and wounds as Chris. 

And he was a man who had stared through the scope of a sniper rifle to make a kill. It took a shooter to think like a shooter. There was a cold loneliness in that knowledge, and Vin could see Colton knew that, too. That knowledge helped salve the pain in Vin’s heart as little else could. 

“I reckon I know that, sir.”

Sam’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Damn, that makes me feel old. My kids call me that when they’re in trouble. So, until you’re in trouble, call me Sam.”

Vin shook his head. “I saw those plaques with your name on them. Captain Sam Colton. I was jist a lowly NCO.”

“Not so lowly. I’ve seen your service records, Agent Tanner.” He saw the quick fleeting smile as Tanner acknowledged the futility of formality with him. “When the ballistic reports come in, make sure I get a copy. And take the time, now, to get to the hospital to see Larabee. If he’s anything like me, he’s a lousy patient.”

“Ya got that right,” Vin said, relieved beyond words. “Thanks.”

“And get that young computer genius to look for anything in those databases to help us track down this killer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sam.”

Vin looked at him, a bit of a measuring study, as if gauging the level of trust he could put in Colton. Whatever the decision, he passed. Vin nodded. “Sure, Sam.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Vin was torn between going to the hospital and staying in the office to see what JD and Buck could come up with. He wanted something to take to Chris, something tangible to give him; a lead, information, anything. But maybe Chris was the only one who could give them that head start on the investigation. The sooner he started thinking about it, the closer they would be to an arrest. 

Chris was sitting up in bed. The oxygen cannula was gone, there wasn’t blood hung on the IV pole, but the tubes and wires attached to him were an indication that he had a long way to go to recovery. He was reading the newspaper, his eyes narrowed. But as Vin watched, the paper sagged as if it were suddenly too heavy for him to hold and his head tipped back on the pillows, the draw of his mouth showing nothing but pain. He fumbled across the blankets for the morphine pump, hit it and tensed, waiting for the drug to take effect. 

“Ya don’t want to do that too often,” Vin said quietly. “I’ve been down that road. It’s a hell of a ride back.”

Chris turned his head. “Yeah?” 

Vin entered the room and sat down. “They say y’ain’t gonna get addicted, but when you’re hurtin’ enough, *anything* that takes down that pain is addictive.”

Vin wasn’t telling him what he didn’t already know. Alcohol had once been his drug of choice, Chris wasn’t going to let morphine become his devil. He met Vin’s study. “I’m careful.” 

One of the knots in Vin’s stomach loosened. “Good. Here’s something to take your mind off that pain in your middle.” Before he could say anything Chris spoke. 

“I heard Travis brought somebody in.”

Vin sighed. Of course Chris knew. “Sam Colton. Boston. Six weeks from retiring.”

Interesting. There was no doubt or question in Vin’s reply; none of the hesitation that most people couldn’t keep out of their voice when dealing with the unfamiliar. “You say that like you know him.”

“Know of him,” Vin said quietly. “I’ve seen his name on the rifle ranges at the Marine shooting range at Quantico. The guy’s a legend.”

“Six weeks from retiring. How old is he?”

“Not old. ‘bout your age. Must be voluntary.” 

Chris sensed the diffidence in Tanner’s reply. “C’mon, partner. Spill. There’s things goin’ on you aren’t telling me.”

“He’s a good guy, Chris. Level, open, easy to talk to.”

“Not like me?” Chris lifted a brow and Vin smiled, shook his head. 

“Don’t know that there’s anybody like that willin’ to deal with the rest of us.” 

“And what about the rest of you?”

Chris’s perceptions were right on as usual. Vin slouched in the chair, crossed his arms behind his head, cocked his brow. “How much time ya got?”

“That bad, huh?” Larabee looked around at the medical equipment. “At least ten days, if you ask Elizabeth Stone. To be honest, Vin. I’ll be lucky at that. That bastard tore me up pretty good.” 

“We’ll get him, Chris. I swear it.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Okay. The way I see it, Buck’s not sure about anything except he doesn’t have to be in charge. He’s willin’ to give Colton a chance. JD’ll do the job - ”

“Hero worship?”

“If he looks up Colton’s service record, yeah.” Vin agreed. “Nate and Josiah – steady, no problem. Ezra? I don’t know.” Vin shrugged. “Ya never know with Ez.”

Chris was suddenly tired. He closed his eyes. “Make sure …”

Vin bent close. “Make sure?” Chris’s hand closed over Vin’s. “Make sure … the others … don’t be …”

“Pains in the ass?” Vin laughed softly. “I got it, partner. You jist rest up. ‘Member, Colton wants out in six weeks.” He tugged his wrist out of Chris’s weak hold. “You jist heal up and come home. Colton’s a good man, but he ain’t you.”

“You might not want me back,” Chris whispered.

“Yeah, we will. That’s the last thing ya need to worry on, Larabee.” He gripped Chris’s forearm. “Jist get well, Cowboy.”

“You just call me ‘cowboy’?” Chris sighed and drifted away. Vin stayed for a few minutes, listening to the steady beep of the monitoring equipment and watching the steady rise and fall of Chris’s chest. There was life there, strong and steady. He was healing, and if that healing hurt, they’d all been there and they’d see him through it until he was whole and well.  
Chapter 4

The atmosphere in the office was still somber when Vin got back, but no longer purposeless. JD was working, nose close to the monitor of his computer, so focused that he didn’t look up when Vin entered. Buck had a pile of folders on his desk, his eyes scanning the contents quickly and with utter concentration. Josiah was on the phone scribbling something on a legal pad. 

Buck looked up. His eyes were red with strain. “How’s Chris?”

“Doin’ good.”

“He have any answers?”

Vin shook his head. “He ain’t ready fer that, Bucklin, and I didn’t push it.” Vin sat down. “Where’s Ezra and Nate?”

“Ezra is out with Colton going over the site. They said you should meet them there when you get back.” Buck eyed Vin. “You need to eat, Junior. You’ve got that green around the gills look.”

“M’fine.” But he collapsed into his chair. Breakfast had been nearly ten hours ago. 

“Here.” Buck tossed him a power bar and rolled his chair across the floor to the mini-fridge. “Apple or orange juice?”

“Apple.” He snatched the can from mid-air. “Thanks, Bucklin.” He hated taking the time to eat and drink, but truth was, he had been running on empty since Chris had been shot. The power bar and juice would at least hold him for a few more hours. He logged on to his computer as he ate. Nothing but the usual bureaucratic crap and security updates, which weren’t crap, but which tended to pile up quickly. He tried to make his way through the dense language in a few of them, then gave up. He didn’t have that kind of concentration at the moment. He’d ask Josiah for the bare bones essentials later. 

He pushed himself back from his desk. “I’ll be with Ezra and Sam.” 

Josiah nodded. “He’s called for a meeting when you’re done. Maybe … maybe we’ll have something by then. I’m waiting on a call from an FBI profiler who specializes in the sniper mentality-- ” He stopped when he saw the irritation on Vin’s face. “Vin …”

“There ain’t no ‘sniper mentality’ in this case,” Vin said. “He ain’t a mental case with a Jones fer blood and power. I’m tellin’ you, this guy was a pro … a gun for hire. Ya need to find the money. Find that and you’ll find him and the bastard who hired him. Don’t go looking fer monsters when y’ought to be lookin’ for greed.” He twitched his denim shirt from the hook and left the room with an uncharacteristic slam of the door.

His temper had cooled by the time he reached the ground floor. Shit, he’d have to apologize to Josiah. He hadn’t meant to snap at the profiler. He’d seen Josiah work miracles to come up with likely suspects from virtually nothing. Maybe he’d be able to do the same for this case. 

This case … maybe they were all too close. Maybe bringing in Sam Colton was a good thing. He was on their side, but he didn’t have any preconceptions and he wasn’t gunning for Larabee’s chair like some agents had in the past. He seemed to know that Chris wasn’t just *any* SAC, he was the team leader, their friend, and they gave him all their loyalty, trust and love. Problem was, were they letting their hearts rule their heads? 

With no answer to that question, Vin loped across the plaza. He clipped his badge to his jacket, weary of having to pull it out to prove he had access. The police were making their presence felt; uniforms and plainclothes. They were only doing their job, and a long-haired man in jeans and a denim jacket wasn’t exactly what they expected a federal agent to look like. 

Inside, most of the offices were open again for construction work. Vin went over to one of the workers, a wiry Hispanic man whose hands were tough with calluses. “Hola, Signor. Esta usted …”

“I speak English,” the man said with hardly a trace of an accent, which made Vin blush a bit. 

“Sorry.”

“No reason. Many of the crew here are day workers and most of them are Hispanic. I’m Miguel Santiago, the day supervisor.” He held out his hand and Vin gave it a firm shake.

“Vin Tanner. ATF.” He offered his ID and Santiago gave it a good study. 

“That was one of yours that was shot yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a hell of a world.” Santiago shook his head. 

“Would you mind if I asked a few questions?”

“I’m off the clock as long as you’re not INS.” 

Vin nodded, understanding. “How many workers do you hire day to day?”

“It depends on what’s being done. Yesterday we were low. Just two clean-up crews and a few painters on the second floor.”

“How many total?”

“Fifteen, twenty … ” 

“You got a list handy to give to me?”

“It’s in the trailer.” He paused. “I already gave it to the cops.”

Vin gave him a look. “Well, I don’t see a cop holdin’ it out to me and I ain’t got the time to waste chasin’ the DPD to get it. I’m goin’ to the third floor. Bring it up?”

“Sure.” Santiago paused. “I hope I didn’t hire the bastard.”

Vin shook his head. “More likely he trailed in. Does anybody check IDs when the crews come on their shift?”

“When they start and at the end of the day if they’re getting paid. Some guys come on and work for the duration of the job. Others, one day and they’re gone.”

“It’s a tough world out there,” Vin said, recalling how he’d lived a hand to mouth existence as a teenager; moving from menial job to menial job, afraid to stay in one place for too long, carrying fake ID. He pushed those days to the back of his mind. What mattered was where he was now – how far he’d come from that bleak existence. “See you on the third floor.” He raised a hand to Santiago and headed for the stairs.

He found Colton and Ezra standing in the office where he and Kerry had gathered evidence earlier. The ladder was gone and it looked like the floor had been vacuumed. Hell of a job they had to sort through that crap, Vin thought. But he’d paw through a mountain of debris if it would give him a clue as to who had shot Chris. 

“Looks like the place finally got the fine-toothed comb,” Vin said, looking around at the empty space. “They find anything yet?”

“Aside from the detritus of daily existence? No.” Ezra said flatly. “There is nothing here.”

“There’s always something here,” Sam Colton said softly. “We just aren’t seeing it.”

Ezra replied with a slightly acidic tone to his voice. “Are we talking psychological imprints? Maybe you need somebody like Josiah who actually has faith in the supernatural.” 

Vin raised a brow. As a sniper, he knew what Sam meant. “Every shooter has his tells, jist like a gambler, Ez.”

“Do you?”

Vin laughed a bit uncomfortably. “Hell, if I’s to tell you …”

“You’d have to kill me,” Ezra said. “I know.” He looked around, “But unless your astonishingly acute vision can pick up microbes in a puff of dust, I don’t see any evidence that convicts one man.”

“Stop thinkin’ like a lawyer,” Vin said.

“I *am* a lawyer.”

Colton coughed, wondering if he were overstepping his authority. Sometimes opposites – and if there were two men who seemed more opposite than the sniper and the fastidious gambler, Sam hadn’t seen them – played off each other to the advantage of the case. He didn’t want this to devolve into petty recriminations, however. Before he could say anything, a soft knock on the framed-in doorway stopped him.

Santiago stepped inside. “Agent Tanner, I have that list of names.” He held out a CD. I copied the records for the last month. Maybe they’ll be helpful.”

“Thanks. I appreciate the trouble.” He introduced Santiago to Colton and Ezra. “We’ll be around.”

“Just check in with me,” Santiago said. When he saw Colton raise his brows, he explained. “I want to keep the good workers I have. If they see Federal Agents on the site, they might not come back. And my boss will have my head on a platter.” His walkie-talkie crackled to life, and he answered it. “Yeah, I’m on my way.” He looked at the three ATF agents and shrugged. “Sorry. Load of drywall just got delivered. I’ve got to supervise the unloading.”

Sam waited until Santiago was gone before he spoke. “He seems cooperative.”

“Most people are when faced with three armed federal agents,” Ezra said. 

Vin held out the CD. “Want to take it over to JD and see how cooperative he was?”

“Gladly. Gentlemen, if you will excuse me?” 

Vin could have sworn Ezra was beating a retreat, but he had no idea from what, or whom. He noticed a tightness about Colton’s mouth and wondered if the two men had butted heads before he had arrived. If he had been talking to Chris, he would have made some joke about Ezra’s finicky nature and Chris would have cussed, then laughed with Vin. 

Colton seemed to be reading Vin’s mind. “That was interesting,” he observed. “I don’t know that I’ve ever had an agent so adept at smoke and mirrors. ”

“Hell, Ezra’s not … I mean, Ezra … he’s …”

“If it weren’t for the badge, he’d be running a con.”

Vin laughed. ‘Yeah. And makin’ a mint at it. Took me a while to figure where I stood with him, but he’s a good man. A good agent.”

“I heard he had a reputation.”

“So do I,” Vin said evenly. “Chris trusts him.” 

“So I should, too?”

“He’s one of us,” Vin replied. “We work together or we walk together.”

Colton raised a dark brow. “Then I guess we’d better work together, because I don’t see myself walking out of this.”

If Vin heard an echo of Chris’s voice in those words, he didn’t tell Colton. But he reckoned he, and the team, were in pretty good hands. Colton seemed to be staring into the distance. He finally spoke, “Go home, Tanner. You’ve had a long day. Even your computer genius can’t force data to collate faster than the limits of the technology.”

He was tired; he could feel its ache through his entire body. Behind his eyes, in his shoulders, in his back which was touchy at the best of times. He took a last cursory look around the room. It still felt like a dark cipher to him. “Sam, when ya told Ezra ‘bout seein’ tells … y’ain’t seen something I missed, right?”

Sam smiled. “Nah, I was just jerking his chain. He was giving me some attitude, so I gave some back.”

“Ezra … he’s all right.”

“He’s damn smart. And when we find the shooter, he’s the one I want constructing our case. But I haven’t been an SAC for as long as I have without knowing where boundaries are.” 

Ezra had a way of stepping over boundaries. Vin knew that. Hell, he’d experienced it; he’d also seen it work charms on everybody he came in contact with, from waitresses in restaurants, to fellow gamblers at a high-staked poker game, to dangerous men who could have cut his life short in the blink of an eye. It was what made him so valuable in undercover ops, just as Vin’s sharp eyesight and moral delineation made him the perfect sniper. But Vin knew what his boundaries were, and they didn’t include being an intermediary between Colton and Ezra. He couldn’t do his job if he was too busy trying to reconcile Colton’s straight path with Ezra’s meandering one. They both led to the same destination – Ezra’s route was just a bit more scenic. 

Vin sighed. “See you tomorrow.” He gave Colton a look. “Meanin’ no disrespect, but y’ought ‘a take your own advice.”

Sam smiled, a warmth coming to his eyes. “You sound like my older son.” 

“Naw, ‘less he’s from Texas, I’ll bet he sounds a whole lot better’n me.” Vin grinned, the atmosphere relaxing a bit. He figured Colton and Ezra would sort things out. Hell, if he and Ezra could be friends, anything was possible.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Sam wasn’t sure that what he was about to do was the best idea he’d ever had, but time was short and he needed to jump start this investigation while everybody else was looking for the needle in the proverbial haystack of databases and quantitative information. Usually, given the lack of solid physical evidence, facts and figures were the way to proceed, but this case had one asset that was being wasted: it had a living, breathing victim who was also a trained investigator. He had to talk to Chris Larabee. 

There was a cop standing outside the hospital room. When Sam showed his badge, it was scrutinized closely and his name checked on a list of approved visitors. Sam was briefly worried until the cop nodded. “Go on in, sir.” Sam could only assume that Travis had put his name there.

Larabee was sitting up in bed, seeming pale as the sheets. Under the fluorescent lights, his blond hair looked grey, his features carved and lined with pain. Despite that, when Sam entered the room, he knew he was in a presence. If Larabee could project that aura from a hospital bed, Sam could only imagine the charisma and drive he possessed at full strength. 

Larabee put down the newspaper he had been reading. “You’re not a doctor,” he said. “I’m guessing you’re SAC Sam Colton.”

Sam held out his hand. “I’m sorry we had to meet like this. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Forget about half of what you’ve heard – the good and the bad.”

“And the truth lies somewhere in the middle.” Sam smiled. “Your team might take issue with that.”

A faint color tinged Larabee's thin cheeks. “They’re good men, every one of them.”

“They are … unique.” 

Chris laughed, then winced in pain. “Damn! I’ve got to remember not to do that.” He looked at the clock on the wall. 

Sam understood. “Time sure crawls by when pain is eatin’ at your guts. I’ve been there. Got shot during the first Gulf War and I’m still paying for it.”

“Is that why you’re retiring?” Chris asked, interested.

“Personal reasons and two boys of an age to get in trouble.”

“Divorced?”

“No. That would have been easy.” He still had to blink back tears when he thought of Lauren. “My wife died of ovarian cancer.”

“I’m sorry.” The sympathy was genuine. He’d lost a beloved wife, too.

Sam sat down and looked at his clasped fingers for a moment. “Yeah, well, I didn’t come here to wear you out with personal information.”

“The case?”

“We’re working on it, but Tanner is right. The guy was a pro. He left nothing. We’ve got a few skinny leads, but without anything concrete, all we have is a bunch of numbers and names that your computer genius is trying to collate.”

“If anybody can do it, it’s JD. I know he looks like a kid, but don’t let the freckles and wide eyes fool you. He graduated in the top ten percent of his training class and has more than a few citations for his work both in the field and in front of the computer.”

“I’m not underestimating him. But we need *something*. Some lead. Something maybe only you can provide.”

Larabee laid his head back against pillows. “How much time ya got?”

“Not much,” Sam said. “Six weeks and I’ll be history. We want this case closed before you come back.”

“We?”

Sam hadn’t even considered the implication, but he didn’t back down. “I’ll be honest with you. I want this case to be my last one, and I want it to be a good one.”

“Any reason in particular? I mean aside from duty?”

Sam suddenly understood why his men were so loyal to Larabee. The man didn’t miss much. And the look in those green eyes was both measuring and sympathetic. Sam stretched out a booted foot. “Seems I stepped on a few toes on my last case. My old AD couldn’t wait for the door to hit my ass on the way out before he was telling people I was burned out and damn near psychotic.”

“Why?”

“That last case … I lost an agent. A rookie fresh out of FLETC. He decided he needed to be blooded more than he needed to stay back and let the older agents deal with a situation. He went to the AD, told him I was holding him back because I’d written him up on a procedural matter … like it was some sort of punishment. The AD ordered me to step back and let the agent get some experience. He was shot during a raid on a crack house. I’d never lost an agent on my watch. So, like the hot-headed fool I am, I fired off a letter to DC. Only problem was the powers that be took the side of my AD – said I didn’t have the right to restrict a *qualified* field agent. They contacted my AD, who wasn’t real happy with my actions. I found myself riding a desk with rumors flying around that I’d been the one to put an inexperienced agent in a dangerous situation that he wasn’t ready to face. So, I took a long, hard look at my future, my life, my kids, and decided I didn’t need that shit. I quit, but got a parting gift from my AD … This job.”

“You thank him for it?”

“Not yet, but I’m beginning to think I might.” Sam grinned at Larabee. “Wouldn’t that just be a splinter in his ass?”

Larabee laughed, gasped with pain. “Shit!” His eyes went to the clock.

Sam held out his hand. “I should go. Let you get some meds and some rest.”

“I’m all right.” But his pallor belied that. “Tell the team that I’m good with this. With you.”

Sam felt something release in his belly. “That means a lot to me, but maybe you’d better tell them.”

“They give you any trouble?”

“No.”

But Larabee, despite his pain, ran the gamut. “Vin?”

“The best. Thorough, dedicated. We’re good.”

“Buck?”

“Relieved he doesn’t have to be behind your desk.” 

Larabee smiled. “Trust him. He won’t let you down.”

“JD?”

“I’m waiting to see if he can work miracles with lines of data.”

“He will. And before I fade out on you … Josiah and Nathan are team players. Professionals to the core. You won’t find better agents anywhere.” 

“Ezra?”

Sam hesitated briefly before answering. “We’ll work it out.”

Larabee’s green eyes narrowed. “Don’t dismiss him as being nothing but an erudite pain in the butt. He’s smart, he’s adaptable, and underneath the Armani suits, he’s tough and resourceful. If you don’t know what to do with him, team him up with Vin. He’s got a way of taking Ezra down a notch without him realizing it.”

Sam laughed at that conclusion, for he had thought of that after seeing them sparring verbally earlier. “Yeah, it took me a while but I figured that would be the way to go. Nice to know I wasn’t misreading things.”

Larabee sighed, seemed to shrink a bit in the bed as pain wore him down. His eyes closed for a moment. “Trust them. Trust yourself.”

“I will. If I run into any brick walls, I’ll be back.” He stood up, ran a hand through his dark hair, caught Chris looking at him. “I’m beat.”

“Where’d Travis put you up?”

“A rental condo downtown. Pretty good digs for someone with one foot out the door.”

“Watch it. You might find yourself back behind the threshold if Travis has his way.”

Sam smiled at that, then sobered and said, “When you’re up to it, we need to talk about the shooter.”

“Tomorrow.” A grimness came into his voice that had nothing to do with pain.

A nurse came to the door with a tray of pills. She looked at Sam. “Sorry, sir. You’ll have to leave now. Visiting hours are over.”

“I’m on my way out.” He let her pass, then raised his hand in farewell to the man in the bed. 

Later, sitting in his rented condo, Sam looked out at the city view. He held a glass of bourbon and water in his hand. He wasn’t much of a drinker. Never had been, not even after Lauren had died. Just a whiskey at night to take the edge off his day, a beer once in a while. He’d read Larabee’s file; the man once had a serious problem, but that was a while ago, back when his wife and son had been murdered. He’d come back from that. He’d come back from this, too, Sam figured. He didn’t think Chris Larabee was a man who backed down or gave in easily. Not even to death. 

He finished his drink and picked up his phone, punching in the speed dial for home. He had a sudden need to talk to his sons. His older son, Dustin, answered, his voice sleepy. 

“Sorry, Dusty. I forgot about the time difference. How are things?”

“Good. Ryan’s at grandma’s tonight. He and grandpa are fishing tomorrow.” His son’s voice was rough with sleep. 

“You didn’t want to go?”

“I’m working, remember? Got to put aside money for school.”

“I’m paying.”

“Sure, for the serious stuff. I’m talking the cool factor.”

Sam laughed. “Okay. That you can pay for.”

“Everything going okay?” Dustin asked.

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Don’t worry about us, Dad. We’re good. Grandma’s been bringing food over. And Ryan and I haven’t trashed the place.”

“Keep it that way,” Sam growled, not really meaning it, and was happy to hear Dustin’s carefree laugh. “Take care of yourselves.”

“You, too, Dad. We miss you.”

“Grandma told you to say that, didn’t she?”

“Yeah. But it’s true. Goodnight, Dad.” 

He heard the sound of a big yawn. “Goodnight, Dusty.” He disconnected and plugged his phone into the charger before he went to bed. He was still running on Boston time. Once his head hit the pillow, he was out like a light.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Ezra stood on his deck, looking out at his expansive city view. This condo was his home; the first place he’d ever allowed himself the luxury of giving that name. He’d brought it as an investment and moved in when he sold a coldly modern downtown loft more quickly than he’d anticipated. He hadn’t intended the move to be permanent, but the condo was comfortable and somehow, it felt right to stay. He had some rental properties that Maude’s business manager kept track of for him, even some land in Louisiana that had frontage on the Mississippi where he might build a house someday – if he survived his current employment. If not, he had deeded it in his will to Josiah, figuring that the profiler would know how to put it to good use. Ezra wasn’t particularly philanthropic: he knew a good tax break when he saw one and he wasn’t above hedging his bets for his chances at eternal life. 

He laughed softly at himself. He’d done well enough to satisfy Maude, though she still didn’t understand why he had taken the career path he had. “You have a perfectly decent law degree from Tulane. In corporate practice you would have been a millionaire by now, sugar.” He could hear her voice as clearly as if she were in the same room. Sadly, along with her business acumen and gambling prowess, Ezra had also inherited her penchant for risk-taking. Not even the poker table could provide the shot of adrenaline he felt when he was on the job. Why the ATF? Why not? The job allowed him to use his legal skills as well as his risk-assessment talents, and above all, his chameleon-like ability to take on undercover assignments which were the biggest rush of all. 

Maude could understand that much. What she couldn’t comprehend was his deep and abiding attachment to the Team, to the men he worked with. Maude was his mother, and God knew that he loved her for giving him life, but Ezra didn’t consider her *family*. That honor belonged to his brother agents. And heaven help him if she ever found that out!

It was that allegiance that made what had happened to Chris so shattering. To be shot in the line of duty, even to die in the line of duty was something they all anticipated. But for a dark, faceless, emotionless assassin to strike Chris down was a blow that Ezra was having a hard time absorbing. 

Then there was Sam Colton. The unknown quantity who was suddenly in Chris’s office, taking Chris’s place, had shaken Ezra to the core. Unused to such shifts in what had seemed to be solid bedrock, he found himself struggling for purchase, and feeling more alone than he ever had. Even Vin, whose mental ties with Chris left most of the other team members baffled, had found common ground with Colton. 

And then there was the matter of his reputation, sullied by an internal affairs investigation that had proved nothing, but had cost him plenty. It had all been a lie, a fiasco, but it had hurt Ezra and sent him from St. Louis to Denver with a red flag on his personnel file. Funny, but that reputation was what had made Larabee decide to take him on. He’d read the file, looked at Ezra, and said, “I could use a man like you. That black mark looks like a convenient entrée into undercover work.”

And so it had been. 

Ezra’s thoughts were interrupted by a the buzz of his intercom. Lord, he hoped it wasn’t Colton. 

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

The last thing Vin wanted to do was to drive out to Ezra’s gated condominium complex. But the gnawing doubts and worries about Standish and Colton would keep him awake for longer than the drive and confrontation would take. He stopped at the gate and buzzed Ezra. A few seconds later, the disembodied voice floated out of the speaker.

“Yes?”

“Ez, it’s me.”

“Vin?”

“Yeah. You know, the long-haired guy with the bad wardrobe who works at the desk next to yours?”

“Your sarcasm leaves something to be desired.” He unlocked the door to admit Tanner. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“Hell, Ez, can’t ya jist say, ‘Howdy, welcome?’”

“No. Care to join me in a libation?” He lifted his glass and shook it, the ice clinking musically against the cut crystal. 

“Sounds good. How ‘bout some of that Wild Turkey ya keep fer Chris?”

Ezra lifted a brow. “Not your usual choice.”

“It’s been that kind a’ day,” Vin sighed and sank down on the couch. “Thanks.” He took the offered drink and sipped it in silence for a few minutes, waiting for Ezra to refresh his own drink and join him. 

Vin had thought long and hard about what to say to Ezra on the drive over. He still didn’t see a good way to approach the subject. Ezra could be difficult, and Vin had a hard time following the twists and turns of his mind, not to mention his high-falutin’ vocabulary. 

Standish sat down on a cream-colored leather chair that Vin figured would have had his grandpa calling Ezra a damn fool for spending that much on an “ass cradle.” For years, Vin had owned nothing but secondhand furniture with sprung seats and loose arms. He’d come a long way from that, despite living in Denver’s notorious Purgatorio district. His furniture was new and easy on weary bones, but not luxurious. He had to admit that the couch he was parked on gave a whole new meaning to comfortable. The only uncomfortable thing about it was the price. But then Ezra never seemed to be hurting for cash.

“You had something you wished to discuss?” Ezra suggested. 

Vin took another swallow of whiskey. The fact that he and Ezra were often teamed on investigations didn’t make this easier. This issue was bordering on the personal, and that wasn’t something anybody who worked undercover was comfortable with. But he would try. 

“Ezra, you ain’t never been in the military, right?”

Standish looked at him as if he had asked if he’d ever been in a mental institution. “Good Lord, no! My mother would have locked the doors and barricaded the windows if I had ever been so inclined. And I had no ambition to be cannon fodder, I assure you.” Then, seeing the color rise in Vin’s cheeks, he backed off. “Not that I intend to besmirch the honor and courage of those who do … I mean … enlist.” He sounded so smug even to his own ears that he added with genuine sincerity, “I am sorry. I know you have served with honor and at great personal sacrifice. Please, accept my apology.”

Vin shook his head. “Hell, ya know what they say, ‘Ev’ry cripple has his own way ‘a walkin’.” 

“What made you ask?”

“It makes a man look at things differently. Ya look at your team and ya have t’figure out what makes each man valuable. Ya want somebody good with his hands, somebody who c’n coax radio signals out ‘a thin air. Ya want a shooter. Ya want somebody who c’n talk to the locals and make’em talk back … Maybe ya want somebody to blow things up, and ya really want somebody who c’n put bodies back t’gether.”

“You’ve just described us. The team,” Ezra said. 

 

Vin continued once he hoped he had Ezra thinking on the right track. “Chris was military. So’s Buck an’ Nathan, and Josiah, back in ‘Nam. And me.” He looked at Ezra. “In the military, particularly in Special Forces, ya build teams around those needs, jist like Chris did with us.”

“I seem to be noticeably on the outside of that cadre. Myself and our youthful computer guru.”

Vin shook his head impatiently. “Y’ain’t listening, Ez. Sam’s ex-military. So maybe we all know what he’s thinkin’ when he looks at us. He ain’t lookin’ fer flaws; he ain’t looking ta see if he c’n trust us or even if he c’n *like* us. He’s lookin’ to see how we work as a team to complete a mission. It ain’t about *you*, Ez, or anything in yer file.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Ezra said loftily. 

Vin sighed, pushed himself upright from his slouch. “Sure ya do. When I walked into that room, I could’a cut the air with a knife.”

“I can’t help that.”

“You and Colton have words?”

“No! Please, give me that much credit. I do know when I am outranked.”

Vin laughed. “See, ya know the lingo.”

“It was a metaphor.”

“Shit, Ezra. I don’t care what it was for.” He deliberately misconstrued what Ezra had said. “Jist remember, Chris built this team and he damn near died for it, so don’t make Colton’s job harder. Chris is willin’ t’hand the reins to Sam ‘til he c’n take’em up again. Don’t fight the man.” 

Ezra opened his mouth, then closed it, out-argued and out-reasoned by the last man he’d believed capable of rendering him speechless. “Is that all you have to say?”

“I reckon I spoke my piece.” He drained the glass of whiskey. “Thanks fer the hospitality, Ez.” He rose. When Ezra started to stand, he held up his hand. “Nah, don’t git up on my account. I c’n show myself out.” He ambled his way to the door. “See ya t’morrow.” Then he was out in the cool night air, still wondering if he had made his point. Hell, it was easier hitting a moving target than keeping up with Ezra’s shifting thought processes. 

Chapter 5

The flight to the Cayman Islands had been long, grueling due to delays in Dallas and Miami. But he was used to delays and adaptable. He had been hired to do a job, and when he checked with his offshore bank, the deposit had been made. His client was satisfied, even if the subject had not been confirmed eliminated. He had been paid, and paid very well. It could be weeks before his next “appointment.” He had planned a vacation … maybe Thailand, Bora-Bora. Some luxurious resort where all sorts of pleasures and diversions could be had for the right price.

He collected his luggage. His elegant and easily disassembled rifle had been shipped separately. He caught one of the island taxis to his exclusive, gated compound. Once inside his bungalow, he showered, mixed a drink, and stood on his balcony overlooking the ocean. It was peaceful, he thought. Just what he needed after the stresses of his job and the day of travel. 

He took a deep breath, raising his head to the skies … So blue … 

His calm was destroyed by the press of cold, hard steel against his spine. Instinctively, his hands went up in a gesture of surrender. There was nothing else he could do. 

“You failed.”

“I was paid.”

“Were you?We put the money in, we can just as easily take it out. All it takes is the push of a button. And if you do not fulfill your contract, the consequences will be much more severe. Your ticket to Denver is on the desk. You have a week from the time you land to eliminate your subject. And there will be a bonus if you take down any other agents in the course of your actions. When the job is done, you will never see or hear from us again. If you fail, you will be dead. If you value your life, you will not turn around for five minutes. 

The weapon was withdrawn from his spine, but the scrawl of perspiration was nearly as cold on his skin, despite the warmth of the early tropical evening. He heard his door close, and still did not turn around. Only when the full five minutes had passed, did he back off from the balcony. He picked up the envelope in the desk. A first class ticket to Denver was included, dated two days hence. He had time to gather his resources, ship his weapon, recover from jet lag and shock. He would need every minute. 

 

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Vin was expecting to be the first in at the office as usual the next morning, but when he opened the door, the lights were on, the computers were loading, and the aroma of brewed coffee greeted him. The door to Chris’s office was open, and Sam was sitting at the desk. Vin knocked and peered in. “Mornin’.”

Sam looked up from the papers he had been reading. “Pour some coffee and come on in. I want to go over some of the information that Forensics just faxed over.” He raised his mug. “I hope you like it strong.”

“Ain’t much sense in drinkin’ brown water,” Vin said. “I finally got these fellers trained, all except JD. Kid puts so much milk in it that it’s hardly coffee at all.”

“He’ll learn.”

Vin poured a mug, approving of the dense brew. He took the carafe into Sam’s office and reheated his mug before settling into his usual chair. 

“Semper Fi,” Sam toasted.

“Sua Sponte,” Vin responded with the Ranger motto, took a sip. “Jist like I like it. What have you got there?”

“Not a heck of a lot.” He passed the fax over to Vin. 

Vin looked at it carefully. Suddenly, he missed Chris with a pain that was almost physical. He didn’t know if Sam was aware of his struggles with dyslexia. He wondered if he had an obligation to tell him. It had been hard enough explaining to Chris. Might as well get it over with. He took a breath, another sip of coffee. “Sir, I figure I ought to tell you … when I was younger … before I got my GED and went into the service, I had this thing … this problem with reading.”

“Dyslexia?”

Vin felt the heat in his face. “Yes, sir. It’s mostly better, but -- ”

“My son Dustin has dyslexia. Don’t worry about it, Vin. Just let me know if it’s a problem. Lord knows those government reports can scramble anybody’s brain. Now that’s cleared up, can I go back to being Sam instead of ‘sir?’”

“Sounds good.” 

Sam pointed to the fax. “What do you think?”

Vin finished reading, easier now that Sam understood his difficulties. The forensics team had found fibers, gypsum dust, grit consistent with that in the plaza gravel. The fiber analysis was muddled, though some blue paper-like fibers seemed out of place. The tech writing the report felt that they seemed to match the sort of booties sold at any hardware store. Workers used them to protect the finish on hardwood or marble floors during construction. Nobody on site used those, the work hadn’t advanced to that stage. The only other evidence that seemed to have any bearing on the case was a piece of a receipt from the nearest hardware store to the site. Only part of the date and the name of the store were legible. 

Vin sat back in his chair. “Don’t see what good it will do without more information. Anybody could have purchased anything at a hardware store. I’ll take a look at the receipt. You can bet if they paid by credit card it ain’t theirs.”

“What if they paid cash?”

“Video surveillance cameras.” Vin paused. “Somebody ought to take look at them. You want me on that?”

Colton nodded. “Give the receipt to Buck. He seems to have a rapport with the forensics department.”

Vin chuckled. “Hell, Buck’s got rapport with 90 per cent of the female population of Denver.”

“I got that impression.” 

Vin pushed himself upright and retrieved his mug. “Th’others should come wandering in soon. Maybe JD came up with something.” 

“Let me know.”

Vin paused, his hand on the doorknob. “Sam, think I’ve got time to head over to the hospital? I’d kinda like to talk to Chris. See if he’s come up with any leads on old cases.”

Sam had thought about doing that himself, but decided that Vin’s idea made more sense. Larabee might find it easier to talk to Vin, than to a stranger. “Sure. Take it when you need it.”

“I know the docs don’t finish up until ‘round ten. I figure that’ll give me time to talk to Santiago and maybe take a look at those tapes.”

The outer office door opened and Nathan knocked on the glass sidelight before opening the door. “’Mornin’.” He looked at the stack of reports on Sam’s desk. “Anything new?”

“Some trace evidence,” Vin said. “I’ll get to work on those videotapes from the plaza.” He left with a nod to Sam and Nathan. 

“Anything I can do?” Nathan asked. “I cleared nearly all the files on my desk last night, so I’m free.”

Sam pulled out a stack of files nearly eight inches thick. “Some of Larabee’s old cases. See if there’s anything that raises a red flag. Check with the prisoner databases to see if anybody with a particular bone to pick has been released. Don’t waste time on violations that don’t involve bigger players. The kind of money that hires paid assassins isn’t nickel and dimes.”

Nathan took the files. “Chris took down some big guns. It ain’t gonna be easy narrowing down the possible suspects.”

“Do your best. We’ve got to have some leads. The trail of evidence is getting colder my the minute. Work with Josiah on those. As a profiler, he might have insights into the sort of scum that would take down a federal agent.”

“Just about anybody in those files would do it,” Nathan said. 

“Start out with the ones who might have pled down to lesser charges or who are out of prison.” Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose. His head was starting to ache. This team functioned on an entirely different level than most; the intensity of the cases – many involving high-level national security issues – were enough to give a saint a headache, and Sam was no saint. Neither, he suspected, was Chris Larabee. No wonder Larabee had migraines. 

There was a knock on the door and the young computer expert, Dunne, looked in. “I’ve got some information,” he said. 

“I’ll be right out. Get the others in on this, too.” Dunne vanished back into the main office and Sam went into the lavatory and eyed the medicine cabinet. He took for two Excedrin Migraine before joining the others.

Dunne brushed his forelock of dark hair out of his eyes. “I put the data from the CD we got from the foreman into a spreadsheet. I looked at the variables; workers who were hired for the duration, workers who were hired for special skills like plaster and tile work, electricians … I eliminated those first because of the timeframe and the fact that the special trades demand training and union membership. I figure the shooter isn’t the kind of guy who would go about getting all the certifications and licensures necessary. I narrowed it further to workers who hired on for less than a week over the last six months. I came up with thirty names. I dropped those who hadn’t been back in the last six weeks. Twelve of those only hired on for one or two days. I took a chance and cut out those who hadn’t checked in for the last ten days. Six came back the week of the shooting.” Dunne paused and took a deep breath. “Two of them called Santiago asking when they could come back. That leaves four names. Only one of them hired on for three consecutive days and never came back to collect his wages.” 

He handed a sheet of paper to Sam. “Ramon Perez.” When he saw Sam’s brow lift, he nodded. “Yeah, I know. It’s like looking for a John Smith. So, I called INS. They said the same thing until one of them ran a check. It seems a man who called himself Ramon Perez claimed his wallet had been stolen. He lost his temporary resident card, his photo ID, his Mexican driver’s license … He said he was supposed to work at the site near the Federal Plaza and he couldn’t get the job without ID.”

“But somebody used his ID to get hired,” Buck said and clapped JD on the back to congratulate him. “Good work, JD.”

JD just shook his head. “I found some guy named Ramon Perez – an innocent guy who lost his ID.”

“He didn’t ‘lose’ his ID. It was stolen,” Sam said. “Buck, find this Perez and see if he can’t give us something …” Maybe some guy who was hanging around the site. Right now, we need every crumb of evidence we can gather. The bastard who did this was good, but he wasn’t perfect. We’re onto him. JD, did you get to the NCIC databases yet?”

“Not much. Now that I’m done with the Santiago data I can get back on it.”

“Do any of you have contacts with the CIA?” Sam asked.

JD swallowed. “Not me.”

“Orrin Travis would,” Buck said. “And …” He looked at Sam, not wanting to say what he had to say in front of the others. He was probably one of the few people who knew that Vin had done some highly classified ops for “The Company.” It wasn’t common knowledge. Travis knew, Chris, and him. Buck didn’t think he had the right to bring that into play in this conversation. 

Sam’s eyes hardened. “My office.”

The others looked at each other, at Buck. He shook his head. “Everything’s fine.” But a frown of worry creased his forehead as he headed into the office. Sam was standing by the window. “Who else?” he asked.

“Vin.”

Oddly, Sam wasn’t surprised. He’d sensed there were depths to the quiet sharpshooter that were hidden for personal or professional reasons, and as an expert sniper, his skills would have been in demand for counter-sniper ops. No wonder he had been so adamant from the beginning that the shooter was a professional. 

“Listen, Sam. Junior --”

“Junior?” Sam blinked.

“Umm, Vin. He was the last one on the team … the junior agent.” 

“And you’re alive to tell the tale?”

Buck grinned. “Damn amazing, isn’t it? But what I was saying, Vin wasn’t keeping this from you deliberately.”

“Buck, I’ve been with the government in one capacity or another since I was eighteen. I know all about security clearances and need to know, believe me.”

“I’m gonna help JD sort through the NCIC data. You never know what might show up.” 

Sam nodded. Then when Buck had closed the door, he picked up the phone and called Orrin’s secretary to make an appointment with her boss.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

It was a triumph of will over pain, but Chris finally had his own pajamas and robe on, and with permission from Elizabeth Stone and a lot of willing help from the nurses, moved from the bed to a chair by the window. He felt like a beast was gnawing at his belly but he was going to enjoy this victory. Small steps. Not his wish, but hard necessity. 

He sat in the light of the Denver afternoon with a legal pad on his lap and a pen in his hand. The pad had been blank for an hour. He’d started sifting through cases mentally, starting with the most recent. While many of them involved the sort of criminal activity that could warrant a death threat, the principals were either in jail or dead. They were not likely to have the opportunity to locate, hire, and pay an assassin. The most recent cases were the easiest, but his mind was sluggish from drugs, which made analyzing older cases difficult at best.

He sighed and tipped his head against the high back of the chair. It was one of the few things they’d done right in the hospital, those chairs with the high backs and an ottoman. He heard his door open and he stubbornly refused to open his eyes, hoping the interloper would go away and leave him in peace.

“Ain’t gonna work, Chris,” Vin drawled. 

“Hell.” But he opened his eyes. “Playing hooky?”

“Wasn’t much I could do there, so I figured I’d come over here t’see ya.”

Chris wasn’t fooled. He could see Vin’s eyes focused on the legal pad. “Yeah, it’s blank. Just like my brain.”

Vin frowned. “Does that mean ya don’t know, or ya can’t remember?”

“I remember plenty, but none of the cases are adding up to a hired assassin.” He tilted his head towards Vin. “Anything new on your front?”

“Well, JD found a feller whose ID was stolen, and who worked at the site. Seems like the shooter used the ID to sign on to the job.”

“You talk to him?”

“Not yet. Workin’ on it.”

“Work harder.” Chris shifted in his chair. “I’d like to get out of here.”

Vin appraised him. His color was better, his eyes clearer. But he was still a long way from healed. “Looks like ya got time,” he said. “C’mon, y’ought to get back to bed.” 

He waited at the side of the chair until Chris pushed himself up, then walked him back to the bed. It was a slow progress; clearly painful for Larabee, and by the time he was settled again, his face was sheened with sweat and his mouth set and hard. He hit the morphine pump and didn’t say much until the analgesic kicked in.

“I’m serious,” he finally said. “I *need* to get out of here. I can’t access my files here, so I’m handicapped.”

“Yeah, you’ll be real handicapped if you push yourself out a’ here too soon.” Vin folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “’Bout all I can do is see about gettin’ a laptop in here with Buck or JD. But if Doc Stone puts her foot down, I ain’t arguing with her.”

“Coward,” Chris grumbled.

Vin held up his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty as charged.”

“How’s Colton?”

“Takin’ care of business. Least ya won’t come back to an office overflowin’ with paperwork.”

“I wasn’t speaking of paperwork.”

Vin sighed. “He’s good, Chris. But he ain’t you.” 

“Thanks.” Chris’s voice was fading as the pain meds made him drowsy. Vin stood upright and stretched. “See ya tomorrow,” he said quietly, and Chris’s mouth twitched in a faint smile.  
7*7*7*7*7*7*7

After leaving the hospital, Vin drove to the DPD to view the security tapes of the plaza. He sat in a small, dim room for nearly three hours, focused on the small screens in front of him, watching the same loop of tape over and over. He didn’t see anything; the camera angles were just off enough that the building he needed to see was out of range. Finally, the image of Chris being shot over and over was more than he could bear. Sick to his stomach, his eyes aching, his head throbbing, he quit. 

He called Buck, got voice mail and left a message to let Wilmington know that he was calling it a day. He scarcely recognized his own voice, dry and husky as it sounded to his ears. He drove back to Purgatorio, through neighborhoods that were changing. What had once been low-rent warehouses were being converted into pricey loft condominiums; mercados were being driven out of business by specialty grocers, and tacquerias by wine bars and bistros. Vin had even seen apartments on the fringe of low-rent, crime-ridden Purgatorio being let for prices that made him wonder about the next year. What would happen when his neighborhood fell under the spell of gentrification. What would people like the widowed Elena Ortiz and her kids do? Where would they go?

Thanks to his government paycheck, banked bounty money, and the hazardous duty bonuses he’d been paid as an Army Ranger and for covert ops, he was in no danger of being evicted. But he also had no desire to share his space with over-paid and over-bred Gen-Xer’s driving Eddie Bauer edition SUVs. He thought briefly and longingly about Chris’s ranch. He’d considered looking at property out by Chris’s spread, but was still wary about how permanent his position with Team Seven would be in the future. He’d been so footloose most of his life that he still couldn’t quite believe he’d finally found a home. Maybe that was why he stayed on in Purgatorio – a last reminder of the life of poverty and abuse he’d fled as a runaway teen – and how easily he could have gone astray without the angels who had picked him up at his lowest point and saved him.

However, wool-gathering wouldn’t get him anything but trouble. He parked his Jeep and ran up the three flights of stairs. The building’s elevator was the one thing in Purgatorio that frightened him. He stopped at the Ortiz’s to pay Elena for doing his laundry and cleaning his apartment. He was more than able to do for himself, but that would be like taking food out of the Ortiz’s kids mouths. She needed the money, he didn’t. And in return, she made sure he had clean clothes, a clean apartment, and somebody to keep an eye on the place during long undercover assignments. 

By the time he made it up to his apartment, along with a container of Elena’s chicken enchiladas, it was nearly dark. And somebody was standing in the shadows. Vin started to reach for his Sig, when the shadow resolved itself into Sam Colton. Vin was so surprised he nearly dropped the enchiladas. “Sam? Is somethin’ wrong? Is Chris okay?” 

Sam held up a hand. “Nothing’s wrong, and Larabee is fine. I just …” he looked around at the dingy hall. “Can we go inside?”

“Sure.” Vin dug out his keys and unlocked the door and deadbolt. “Come in.” At least the place was clean. He let Colton enter first. “Make yourself comfortable. It ain’t much, but it’s home. Can I get ya somethin’ to drink? Water, beer, cola? Don’t have diet.”

“Water is fine.” He looked around with interest at Vin’s apartment. The lines were gracious, the ceilings high and the windows gave him a spectacular view of Denver’s skyline. But for all that, it was still shabby with cracked plaster and water-stained ceilings, and those windows that let in the view most likely let out a lot of heat in the winter. Nothing told him much about Tanner. There were a few books, a TV, an old stereo with a turntable, for God’s sake, and a silver boom box. The framed photos on the walls were reproduction Ansel Adams, A print of a Winchester rifle had been signed by the other members of the team, obviously a tribute to Tanner’s skills as a marksman.

The couch was deep and looked comfortable, there was a battered leather recliner and an oak rocking chair with a quilt thrown over the back. No personal items, nothing, other than the quilt that spoke of a woman’s touch, or gave away anything that was Vin Tanner. Sam thought that was pretty darnn sad.

“Sir …” 

“Back to that, are we?” Sam shook his head. “Sam. It’s my name. I might not realize you’re talking to me if you call me ‘sir.’ I’m not that kind of man.”

Vin smiled. “Sorry, slipped out. Got your water.” He held out a glass. “Have a seat.”

Tanner took the couch, his lean body folding into the cushions easily. Sam opted for the recliner, but kept it upright. “So, did Chris have any thoughts about the shooter?”

“No. He’s not up to deep thinkin’, yet. If it’s okay with you and Travis, maybe Buck could take his laptop over to the hospital.” Before Sam could start objecting, Vin leaned forward. “I know about regs and classified materials. Buck could stay with the laptop and when Larabee’s done, bring it right back to the office. We gotta move on this, Sam. That shooter … without any idea why he’s after Chris, he could try again. And this time, Chris won’t survive.” Vin rose and paced to the window. It was bad enough that his voice had developed a tremor without Colton seeing the fear that caused it.

Sam was shaken by the intensity of emotion eddying from Tanner. Clearly, he, more than any other member of the team, had close ties to Chris. Hell, they even shared the same blood type. Like brothers. Larabee, Buck Wilmington and Tanner had all been in special forces in the military. Those teams were formed on a bedrock of trust, honor and camaraderie to a degree that few people could comprehend. Sam could: he’d seen that in the Marines. He’d had it with his spotter, Rick Bowman. And when Bowman had been killed in Bosnia, Sam had felt like he had lost a brother. But he had come home to his wife. Tanner didn’t have that support system in place. Larabee had better live.

“So, why’d ya come, Sam?”

“Buck was worried. He said you didn’t sound right to him. I said I’d check in on you. So, are you all right?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t want to tell Colton that the image of Chris being shot would haunt him for a long time to come.

Sam wasn’t blind. He could see the shadows under Vin’s eyes, the white patches of stress and exhaustion at the corners of his mouth. “I guess you didn’t see anything on that tape,” he said gently.

“Nuthin’ but Chris being shot about twenty times.” Vin’s soft voice was bitter. “Shit.” He dropped to the couch, rubbed his eyes and bent forward, looking at the floor.

Sam gave him a few moments to recover before he spoke. “Interesting place you live. I guess it’s a part of Denver that most people don’t visit.”

Vin raised his head. “Interestin’ jist about describes it.” 

“You have dinner yet?” 

“No.” He suddenly realized he was hungry. A slow smile spread across his face. “You want to stay for take out?” he asked. 

Sam returned the smile. “As long as you let me pay.”

Vin called and ordered Thai from the take-out down the street. Sam didn’t have Larabee’s ulcer problems and ate the fiery dishes without flinching. They drank beer and watched a few innings of the Rockies game before Sam left to call his sons.

He wasn’t Chris, Vin thought as he cleaned up, but he was a good man and a slow, but strong trust was developing. That could only help the team in their hunt for Chris’s shooter. 

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris and Elizbeth Stone were having a face-off. Chris, despite pain, wanted off the morphine. Elizabeth Stone was holding her ground.

“You need the pain control,” she argued. “Without it, you won’t heal as quickly. You’ll be tense, you won’t rest, you’ll be miserable and, God help us, even more cranky.” Then realizing that was the wrong thing to say when Chris’s eyes snapped green fire at her, she softened her tone. “Take the morphine for a few more days.”

Chris remained obdurate. “I can deal with pain. I don’t need controlled substances. I *need* my wits about me.”

“You have guards outside your door,” Dr. Stone said wryly. “Can’t they use their wits?”

Chris shook his head. “They can’t read my mind. They can’t go through the memories. I can’t expect men to put their lives on the line without knowing why.”

“You do,” she challenged. 

“No, I don’t. I know why I risk my life. This is different. Somebody tried to kill me. And unless I know why, they’ll try again and again, regardless of the lives of others, until I am dead. Not all the fancy surgery and medical intervention in the world can save me from that.”

For one of the few times in her life, Elizabeth Stone was speechless. She finally sighed and raised her hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll discontinue the morphine. But you will take the Tylenol with codeine, and if I find that your physical and, or mental condition is deteriorating due to pain, you will be back on that pump so fast your head will spin. Do we understand each other?”

Chris gave her a wan smile. “We do.”

“Good. I’ll write up the order. If you change your mind -- ”

“You can say I told you so.” 

“I will. In no uncertain terms.” She scribbled her signature on his chart and turned to leave, nearly running into Vin as she did. She looked at him, startled, but recovered quickly. “Tell your boss he’s annoying beyond belief.”

“Tell my doctor I’m right and she’s wrong.” Chris said.

“Aw, hell. I ain’t getting’ in the middle of this,” Vin said, backing out of the door. “I’ll jist let y’all hash this out.”

“We’ve hashed. Get in here,” Chris ordered. 

“Sorry, Doc.” Vin gave her a crooked smile. “Ya want me to leave?”

Elizabeth Stone shook her head and returned his smile. Of all the members of Team Seven she’d treated for various wounds and injuries, Vin was the one she couldn’t resist; she had tried mightily to pretend he was just another patient, but had given up the pretense, much to her chagrin. “No, go in. Maybe you can distract him from the pain he’ll start feeling now that he’s refused morphine.” She touched Vin’s arm as she left the room, and he blushed, making Chris grin.

“How the hell do you do that?” he asked.

“I don’t argue with the Doc,” Vin suggested. “Chris, take the damn meds if ya need ‘em.”

“I don’t.” But two white patches at the corners of his mouth betrayed him. “Talk to me. Any news?”

“Not on the case. Sam came by my place.”

“Why?”

“T’see where I lived, I reckon. Stayed for a while.” He dodged the truth, warily watching Chris as if he expected the lie to be exposed. 

Chris just took a breath and lay back on the pillows. “That’s what a good agent in charge does. He gets to know his men. You’re not betraying me, Vin. He *needs* you.”

Vin looked out the window, into the darkness, uncertain of what to say. Chris studied him; the color on his cheekbones, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, now narrowed as if he were looking into the sun rather than at the twilight sky. “Vin, you’re the linchpin of this team. If you can’t hold them together, nobody can. I think Sam understands that – and it’s important that you do, since I can’t be there.” 

“Chris, I ain’t … I mean I’m jist a shooter.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short, Tanner.” 

Vin blushed, not knowing how he could justify Chris’s faith in him, and finally deciding he couldn’t. “We miss ya, Chris. Sam’s a good man, a real good agent, but it’s not the same.”

“It is the same, Vin.” Chris shifted in the bed, pain washing through him. “It has to be. It’s the job, not the man behind the desk.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Larabee,” Vin used Chris’s own tactics to counter his argument. He stood, looking down at his friend. “Ya need the meds, Larabee. Take ‘em.”

“You’re in cahoots with Stone,” Chris grumbled.

“Damn straight. She’s smarter ‘n scarier than both of us.” Vin winked and pushed the call button for the nurse. “Take the pills and get some sleep. We’ll come at this tomorrow.”  
Chapter 6

Sam sat at Chris Larabee’s desk. The room was in shadows; the only illumination came from the light on his desk and the glow of the monitor. He felt like he was a century old, past his prime. He’d been reading Larabee’s files. So far, he was getting a clearer picture of the man, but no closer to figuring out why an attempt had been made on his life. It had to be in there somewhere. Such venom and cold revenge came from an old hurt, nursed in the darkness of a heart over time. A recent grudge was like an ember fanned to a flame. A man carrying that kind of hatred didn’t hire out an assassin; he took the shot himself. So the case had to be old, and those cases might not be in the databases; they were locked in storage. Somewhere. 

Sam sat back and scrubbed his hand over his eyes. They were burning and dry. He got up and went into the lavatory, took two of the Excedrin Migraine pills Larabee kept in his medicine chest, washed his face and held a cloth to his throbbing eyes. When he returned to the office, a faint glow from the outer room sent his heart pounding and his hand to his gun. 

He moved silently to the door, opened it. The hinge gave a slight, but audible creak and a shadow moved, turned to the door, the shape of a weapon visible. Sam hit the light and found himself gun-to-gun with Vin Tanner. They both lowered their arms, gave each other sheepish looks and holstered their weapons.

Sam apologized first. “Sorry. I thought everybody was gone.”

“Yeah, well so did I.” Vin said with a slight laugh. “I got a bad habit of comin’ in after hours to do my paperwork.” 

“Forget the paperwork. Come on in. I need to run a few ideas past you.”

Vin looked surprised. “Me? Ezra’s yer idea man.”

“But you know Chris.”

Vin couldn’t argue, despite being the newest member of the team, he’d known Chris better than anybody else as soon as they’d met. How did Colton know that? But Vin went inside and sat on the couch, thinking how many times he had done that with Chris sitting behind the desk. 

“You want some water?” Sam asked.

“No. I’m good. What’s up?”

Sam had to smile at the casual reply. Maybe he was breaking through at least one of the barriers Tanner had built up around himself. “What kind of man hires an assassin?”

“A rich one,” Vin answered without thinking. “A merc’s services don’t come cheap. Trust me, I know.”

“You ever hire out?”

“Hell, no! But when I first got out of the military, I was approached by some who thought I might be interested. Turned ‘em down flat, but the money was sure tempting.”

“And emotionally … who would hire a merc?”

“A rich coward.” Vin’s lips twisted. “Somebody with a grudge. An old one.”

“That’s what I thought,” Sam agreed. “Not small time, not recent. This one is old and cold.”

Vin nodded soberly. “Yeah. Old and cold. That says it.”

“Where are Chris’s old files?”

Vin frowned. “He was in Phoenix fer a while. In Oklahoma City before that. In DC fer a few months before he became an SAC. That’s as far back as I know. Buck’s known Chris a long time. He might have some ideas about what was goin’ on back then.”

“Do you know where those files are?”

Vin snorted softly. “Yer askin’ the wrong man. Ask Travis. He knows where all the secrets are kept. Me, I’m jist a man with a gun.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Tanner.”

Vin’s eyes narrowed. “You talk to Larabee tonight?”

“No. Why?”

Vin shook his head. “No reason. Jist curious.” He pushed himself upright. “I’m goin’ home. You need a ride?”

“No, but thanks for asking.” He looked at his watch. “Christ, I promised to call my boys. I’d better get going.”

“Go on. I’ll close up.”

Sam shot him a glare worthy of Chris. “No more reports, Tanner. Go home and get some rest. That’s an order.”

Vin grinned and snapped a crisp salute. “Yes, sir.” 

Sam took his jacket from the hook on the wall. “Thanks.” 

Vin watched him leave, then closed down Chris’s computer, turned off the desk lamp and locked Chris’s office door. He did the same in the outer office. As he left, he saw the cleaning crew coming down the hall. Either it was later than he realized, or they were early. Before he headed to the elevator, he double-checked the office doors. They had installed a keypad entry system earlier that year, but Vin didn’t quite trust it and always did a manual check before he left for the evening. It was secure. Still feeling a bit unsettled by the sight of the cleaning crew, but uncertain as to why, he caught the elevator to the garage and drove home.

He fell asleep face down on his couch, the TV still on. The sharp beeping of his cell phone woke him up fast. He snatched it up, frowning at the number on the display, then answered sharply, “Yeah?”

“Vin, Buck.”

He sat up. The clock read 3am. His heart beat heavily, fear pumping adrenaline into his system. He could only think of one reason why Buck would be calling his cell in the middle of the night. “Is Chris okay?” He cleared his throat of the betraying rasp. 

“Far as I know.” Then as Wilmington realized why Vin had thought he was calling, he reassured him. “It ain’t Chris. Somebody tried to break into the office.”

“What?” Had he heard right? “Who the hell would pull a stunt like that in a building full of federal agencies? Don’t make sense.”

“That’s what Sam and I are trying to figure out. They tried to jimmy the lock and when that didn’t work, they … hell, they shot out the glass.” 

“Shot?” Vin was awake now. “Nobody saw anything on the security cameras?”

“Well, they cut those out first. Musta been an inside job.”

Vin thought about the cleaning crew and felt sick. He spoke slowly, reluctantly. “The cleaners came early,” he said. “I was leaving the office and they were starting the floor. Same uniforms. Hell.”

Buck gave an exasperated sigh. He knew Vin well enough to hear the taint of guilt in his voice. “Junior, How were you supposed to figure out something was wrong? Your tingling ‘Spidey-sense?’”

“I shoulda mentioned it to the guard. Something wasn’t right …”

“Ease up, Vin. Nobody coulda known.” 

“Are you at the office?”

“Yeah, with Travis and Colton.”

“I’ll be there -- ”

“No, don’t come here. The place is crawling with FBI agents and forensics.” 

The nausea wrenched at Vin’s stomach once more. “Ya think it’s the same shooter who went after Chris?” The silence from Buck’s end of the line spoke volumes. “I’m on my way to the hospital. Call the DPD. Make sure they got a guard on him ‘til I can get there.” 

He disconnected before Buck, or anybody else, could think of a reason why he shouldn’t go to the hospital. He changed his shirt for a simple dark, long sleeved tee, put on his shoulder holster and Sig, and threw on his leather jacket. He didn’t bother to shave. He looked what he was – a dangerous man.

Vin drove through streets nearly empty of traffic, wheeled into the ER parking lot and slapped his parking permit on the windshield. He knew he was technically in violation, but he was pretty sure nobody would ticket him. He showed his badge to the security guard at the door, to the head nurse on Larabee’s floor and to the cop standing guard. So far, all was quiet. 

He went inside Chris’s room. Larabee must have taken the meds, because he didn’t stir when the door opened. There was a dim light over the bed, and he was sleeping. It didn’t seem right, Chris being so quiet and unmoving. Larabee, a man who had no fear of death, was still the most vitally *alive* man Vin had ever met; as if every moment might be his last and therefore something not to be wasted. And he was *never* still, not unless he was unconscious. It wasn’t right. But nothing about this case, was. 

Vin pulled a chair up and sat, guarding his friend from any evil that might come, be it the ghosts of the past haunting his dreams, or the very real danger of the present. He stayed alert and tense until the faint grey light of dawn showed at the window. His tired body gave up the fight and he dozed off when the normal sounds of the hospital day seemed to herald safety, like birdsong after a night of storms.

Chris drifted awake as the pain meds began wearing off. Christ, he hurt! But he’d hurt before and healed. This would just take time. But knowing that didn’t lull his damaged nerves and muscles into calm. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes to the pale dawn blinking a bit as the sleep cleared his eyes and he realized that it wasn’t just pain that had waked him; it was an awareness that he wasn’t alone, the soft exhalation of a breath. He turned his head and saw the sleeping sharpshooter. “Vin?” His voice was just a whisper, but it was enough. 

Tanner came awake quickly, all his wits about him. “You need the doc?” he asked, seeing the pain etched on Chris’s face.There was something not right in Chris’s eyes, but Vin couldn’t put a finger on it. Chris shook his head, denying pain the satisfaction of acknowledgement. “You sure?” 

Chris’s brain was still fuzzy from drugs and sleep. He closed his eyes as if trying to bring back a faint memory, a frown furrowing his forehead. A wave of pain made him close his eyes. He could feel it grow; the tide nearly carrying him away before it receded. “I thought you left.” 

“I went home. Grabbed some sleep.”

“Why did you come back?”

Vin sighed and pushed himself upright. “Hell, Chris. Yer askin’ too many questions. I’m gonna get some coffee, okay?”

“Go ahead, rub it in.” Chris grumbled. “If you see Doctor Stone out there, ask her if I can have some, too.”

“Sure.” As if that would happen. Vin wasn’t happy with the pain he had seen in Larabee’s face even as he slept.

Vin stopped at the nurses’ station. One of the nurses on duty was familiar and he remembered her from the other night. “Ma’am? Could you look in on Chris Larabee? He ain’t lookin’ too chipper to me.” 

“Chipper?” The nurse shook her head. “Somehow, ‘chipper’ and ‘Larabee’ aren’t two words I expect to hear in the same sentence.” But she came from behind the desk quickly. “I’ll go right in.” She touched his arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of him. We all will.”

“I know that, ma’am. Thank you.” He watched as she went into Chris’s room, then he went to get coffee; something to keep him from thinking too much about how far from being well Chris was. If he was a worrying man, he’d be worried. 

His cell phone rang while he was adding milk to his coffee. Buck. “Tanner,” he answered and took a sip. 

“Where are you?”

“Hospital cafeteria getting a cup of coffee.” He took another swallow. “The DPDs got a uniform outside Chris’s door. There’s a mighty scary nurse in there with him, and Doc Stone on her rounds. I ain’t shirkin’ my duty, Buck.” There was an edge of irritation in his voice that his soft Texan drawl couldn’t disguise.

“I never said you were. But, hell, Vin, I’ve been up since 3am, same as you. I’ve got Travis, the FBI and Sam doggin’ my heels, and I just want to be sure Chris is all right.” A pause. “Is he all right?”

“I don’t know,” Vin admitted. “He looked awful punk this mornin’, and I know he’s in pain. I jist don’t know if it’s the kinda pain ya feel when yer healin’ or pain that means y’ain’t healin’.” He looked up to see Dr. Elizabeth Stone heading towards him with a purposeful stride. “I gotta go, Buck. I’ll call ya back.”

“He has to go back to surgery,” Elizabeth Stone said. “He has an infection. We’ll drain the abcess, pack it. Pump him full of antibiotics.”

“Shit -- ” Vin set his coffee down, knowing he was going to start shaking. 

“How did you know?” she asked. “You may have just saved his life.”

“Somethin’ in his pain jist didn’t seem right.”

“You can’t feel somebody else’s physical pain,” she said. 

“No, but I know what it feels like healin’ after bein’ shot to hell. It hurts, but it’s bearable ‘cause ya know it’s healing. This wasn’t that kind of pain I was seein’ in him. So I jist figgered somethin’ wasn’t right.”

“You would have been a hell of a doctor,” Elizabeth Stone said. “I’ll let you know when the surgery is over. It won’t be long.”

“Ya got blood?”

She laughed softly, “Yes, we do. So, don’t think you can make another deposit to the bank of Larabee. You’re seriously overdrawn as it is.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“You can thank me, but Larabee owes you big time. You can use that as leverage.” She turned and left him standing in the cafeteria. His coffee was cold, but he didn’t much feel like a refill. He took out his cell phone and called Buck to give him the bad news, then went up to the surgical waiting room.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7  
It wasn’t a long surgery, but by the time Elizabeth Stone came to the waiting room, five other men had joined Vin. She knew them well, except for the tall, strong-featured man who rose and held out his hand. 

“I’m Sam Colton. Acting agent in charge of this team until your team can get Chris Larabee back behind his desk.” 

“Dr. Elizabeth Stone.” She shook his hand, apraised him, then tugged off her surgical cap. She smiled wearily and looked around at Chris’s team. “The surgery went well. Chris is in recovery. He’ll be back in his room later today. Right now, he’s resting comfortably. He is on pain medication and pretty much out of it; so you might as well get out of here for now. And, yes, there are two uniformed officers outside recovery, and they will stay with him the rest of the day and night.” She rubbed her forehead. “Frankly, I think the one thing that will help him the most is knowing that you are doing your jobs, so I can do mine. Which is to make him better as quickly and painlessly as possible. So, please, go. You’re distracting my nurses.” She gave them a fleeting smile, and left them to check on her patient.

Sam’s phone vibrated, and he answered it, very aware of the focused attention of the five men around him. “Got it. We’ll be there.” He closed the phone. “We need to get to the office. It looks like our shooter is back.”

 

Chapter 7

The team stood outside their office. They had spent the last five hours in AD Travis’s office with investigators from the FBI and DPD even though, technically, it was an ATF case. For some reason, Travis seemed to think they’d lack objectivity. When that torturous interview was over, the team drifted downstairs to their office, whch was still swathed in yellow crime scene tape. Several forensic techs moved about inside collecting physical evidence.

After nearly an hour, Kerry stripped the tape from the door and came into the corridor. “The ballistics lab will run their tests, but most of the bullets were so damaged that I don’t know if they’ll be able to tell more than the caliber. Except for this.” She held out a small plastic bag. Inside was one pristine cartridge. “We found this on Larabee’s desk.” She passed it to Sam, who looked at it, then handed it to Vin. He knew what it was, but he wanted Tanner’s confirmation.

He studied it. “That’s sniper-quality ammo, Sam. I bet it’s the same as what the shooter used on Chris.”

“Shit!” Buck nearly punched a hole in the wall. “The sonovabitch is messin’ with our heads.” 

Ezra, who had been uncharacteristically quiet since they had arrived back at their offices, finally spoke. “However, the more he ‘messes with our heads,’ as you so elolquently put it, the more clues to his identity he will leave behind. We *will* catch him. The odds are not in his favor.”

Sam nodded. “Desperate men make decisions born of desperation.” 

“I should be getting something from the FBI and Interpol databases tomorrow.” JD said, his eyes voicing the question of whether or not he’d done the right thing. 

“Interpol?” Sam nodded his approval. “Good thinking, JD.” He looked at Josiah. “Once we get the information from them, I want you to construct a profile to send out to all the government agencies – see if the MO matches any of their cases. Nathan, help JD and Josiah go through their data. You’re the point man for contacts.”

“Buck, you’re in charge of the security detail at the hospital. I want agents or DPD officers on Larabee 24/7. And set up a surveillance with JD on the hospital. Vin, I need you to keep tabs on the investigation. You’re the expert on this guy’s MO and weapons. You find anything that seems unique or different, get it right to Nathan so he can forward it to the other agencies, and you and Ezra get in touch with the cleaning crew. See if anybody pulled the same stunt this guy did with the construction crew. That may be part of his signature.” He looked at them. “And all of you, keep me in the loop. However, now it’s late. Go home, get some sleep and come at this with fresh eyes in the morning.”

And so they drifted off, all but Vin, Ezra and Sam. Vin sank down on the bench, all starch gone out of his spine. Ezra, quite the opposite, stood upright; and where he had learned that 1000 yard stare, Vin didn’t know, not realizing that Ezra had learned it from him. 

Sam took the middle ground, leaning against the wall. His 5 o’clock shadow was on its way to becoming a full beard and he rubbed his hand over it, conscious of his bedraggled appearance. How Standish managed to look like the cover of GQ, was a mystery. Tanner seemed to be able to run on nothing but caffeine, sugar and sheer grit, though he seemed to be running low on all three at the moment. He set a hand on Tanner’s shoulder. “Vin, go home.”

Vin looked up at him, his eyes weary and shadowed. “Me ‘n Ez ought to talk to the cleaning crew before they go home for the night.”

“Just don’t let it take more than it has to. Get names and phone numbers, then go home. You won’t be much use to me if you come in exhausted tomorrow. Ezra, make sure of that, all right?”

“I will do my best. However, he is right. The longer we wait, the farther we fall behind.” 

Sam nodded and frowned at the office. “Since we can’t get anything done until the glass is removed and the fingerprint dust cleaned up, I’m going back to my place. I’ve had the forensics reports sent to me. I’ll go over them and if there’s anything pertinent, I’ll be in touch. You have my numbers if you need them..” He gave them a salute and headed towards the elevator.

Vin pushed himself upright. “C’mon Ezra. Let’s git this show on the road while my brain is still workin’.”

“It’s not your brain that has me concerned, my friend. When was the last time you ate?” 

Vin gave a soft chuff of laughter. “Hell, I reckon it was …” He paused, thinking, adding up the hours. 

“If you cannot remember the last time you partook of sustenence, it has been too long.”

“I’m good for a while, Ezra. I’ll let ya know when I’m not.”

“And that will be when your blood sugar is so low that you fall at my feet. Which means both Elizabeth Stone and Chris Larabee will flay me alive for allowing it to happen.”

Vin sighed. “Fine. I’ll git a Snickers from the vending machine. That’ll hold me for an hour. Long enough to talk to the cleaning crew supervisor, okay?”

“Snickers. How nutritious and sustaining.” Ezra shook his head. “I despair.”

“It was good enough fer me in – in country – so leave it be. I’ll meet ya in the super’s office.” He matched Ezra glare for glare, then strode down the hall to the vending machines.

Ezra watched him, wondering exactly what Vin had intended to say rather than the enigmatic ‘in country’, a euphemism for places the sharpshooter had no business being as an American government agent. It was another piece of the puzzle from Tanner’s rather shadowy past. Ezra knew all about shadowy pasts, but Vin seemed to be dragging his right along with him, while Ezra was running away from his as quckly as he could. 

The building supervisor who had hired the cleaning crew was clearly as taken aback by the evening’s events as Team Seven. He apologized profusely, but when questioned about the cleaning crew, he said they were not on a set schedule as long as they finished their work in a timely manner. He gave them the name of the janitorial service – licensed, bonded, and insured – with background checks that nearly rivaled those of the agents. 

“What happens when somebody calls in sick?” Vin asked.

“A worker from another shift is assigned.”

“How? I mean, is it a rotation or random?”

“Random.”

It wasn’t good news. “Who makes the calls?” Ezra queried. 

“The service supervisor.” 

“I’ll need his name and number.”

“Sure.” The man handed them two cards. “Mine and the cleaning service super. Listen, he’s a good man. Never a hint of trouble from any of his crews. This is the government. They wouldn’t hire somebody untrustworthy.”

“Yeah. This is the government. The same folks who hired Robert Hansen,” Vin said, referring to the CIA spy who’d sold out his country. “Everybody has a price,” he said. “Seems like somebody had theirs met.”

“Wasn’t me!” The building supervisor raised his hands in surrender. “If I hear anything, I’ll get in touch.”

“I reckon ya know where to find us.” Vin held out his hand. “Thanks. Sorry, I didn’t mean you … It’s jist been a long day.”

“No harm, no foul.” The supervisor’s pager went off. He checked it and reached for his phone. “Are we done?” Vin nodded and he and Ezra left his office. 

“He’s clean,” Ezra said.

“Yeah.”

“The way I see it, the shooter inveigled himself into the confidence of the cleaners, or more likely, the supervisor and paid him off to take his place in the rotation.”

“Paid him off, or eliminated him?” Vin’s voice was even softer than his usual rasp. Ezra gave him a look. “It would fit his MO.” Vin sagged against the wall. He felt like all of his strength was slowly bleeding away.

Ezra frowned at him. Tanner was about as pale as Ezra had seen him without losing blood. “I believe you have reached your limits, my friend. I suggest we take the time to eat some real food. And this time, I will not take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“You payin’?” Vin asked, a glint of humor showing in his tired eyes.

“As long as I may choose the establishment, I will pay,” Ezra sighed. “Can you make it to Angelo’s without keeling over?”

“Two blocks ain’t gonna kill me.”

Angelo’s was a tiny, hole-in-the wall Italian café down the street from the Federal Building. Despite its storefront venue, even Ezra could find no fault with the cuisine. Most nights, it was croweded with government workers and low-level corporate executives, but it was relatively quiet tonight as most of the customers had thinned out along with the traffic leaving the city. 

Ezra requested, and got, a booth in a quiet corner. Vin sank down in a weary slouch and closed his eyes. “Ez, I cain’t even see straight. Good thing I don’t hafta shoot.” It was an admission of exhaustion that surprised Ezra. 

“My lord, I believe the world has just come to an end. Did I hear Ironman confess to bein’ human?”

Vin’s eyes opened a slit.“Yeah, but if ya tell Larabee, I’ll hafta shoot ya.”

“Seeing as you just confessed to not being able to shoot straight, I am not about to tremble in fear.”

“An’ you’re payin’, so I reckon I ain’t gonna try. Order fer me. Somethin’ with meat.” He closed his eyes and drifted into a doze.

Ezra ordered eggplant parmesan, lasagna for Vin and mineral water for them both. Knowing the sharpshooter’s weakness for sweets, he included cannoli for dessert and two double espressos for caffeine. 

Vin roused when the food arrived. He eyed the lasagna, looked at Ezra and nodded. “Thanks.” It was nearly all he said through the rest of the meal. 

When they had finished and went out into the cool evening air, Vin drew a deep breath. “Let’s find the night crew and see if they have any answers.”

“You have been awake for nearly twenty-four hours.”

“Yeah? I reckon you aren’t that much behind me.”

“Compared to a forty-eight hour poker tournament in Vegas, this is small potatoes.”

“Compared to layin’ flat and movin’ an inch an hour up a mountain side over the course of three days, this is a stroll in the park.” Vin’s blue eyes caught the light, glittering with something that wasn’t quite humor.

Ezra laughed, if only to quell the shiver that had run down his spine. “Touche, my friend. Touche.” 

Vin looked up at the Federal building and sighed. He stuck his hands in his jeans’ pockets. “Yeah, well let’s do this bad thing and get out of here. I ain’t gonna lie, Ezra. I’m played out.”

“I concur, Let us proceed.” 

They went to the building’s maintenance office where the cleaning crew supervisor was waiting for them. He was an African American with the build of a linebacker who looked like he could have given Nathan a run for his money when it came to size and strength. He appraised them with a neutral expression; neither hostile nor welcoming. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“You can tell us how a man made his way onto your cleaning crew and shot out the windows of the ATF offices, to start.” Ezra sounded relatively confrontational.

“I can’t do that.”

“And what is preventing you from doing that?” Ezra said acidly.

“Let the man explain, Ezra,” Vin stepped in, smoothly playing the perfect good cop. “We sure could use your help. A good man nearly died, and the bastard who shot him came back last night. Next time, he might get lucky unless we can stop him.”

“I’m not saying I won’t help you. But I’m not the night supervisor. The regular guy disappeared.”

“What? How disappeared?” Ezra asked.

“I was called in this afternoon. I usually work the municipal complex … courthouses, city hall, you know. Listen, man, I was a surprised as anybody to get the call from the Feds.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. What do you mean he ‘disappeared’?”

“He never turned in his timesheets from last night. When my boss tried to get hold of him, there wasn’t any answer. The boss went to his place and it was cleaned out. Like he took a flyer – clothes gone, mail collected. Even his damn dishes were washed and put away.”

“Why didn’t the building supervisor know this?” Vin asked.

“Don’t know. You’d have to ask him.” The man looked at his watch. “Sorry. I really got to get my crews going or else we won’t get our work done.”

“Did they contact the DPD?”

“Don’t know. I just work here.”

Vin handed a card to the man and was handed one in return. “Thanks, Mr. Ellison. If ya find anything, call that number.” 

“Devin. Sure will, Agent Tanner.”

Vin looked at Ezra. “You want to contact DPD?”

“It is an interestin’ thought,” Ezra drawled, his green eyes narrowed. “It seems it will be a longer night than we expected.”

“Hell, I got my second wind now that all the damn espresso’s kicked in. Let’s make that call.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

An hour later, they were at the central police station talking to a harried detective who looked as if he hadn’t gotten much more sleep than they had. He listened to Ezra then sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.

“Listen, Agent Standish. The man you say is missing is an adult. From what I’ve learned, he cleaned out his place and left town. No family in the city, nothing to keep him here. It happens all the time.”

It was too much for Vin. He was out of his chair, taking the detective’s collar in his hands and getting in his face. “Ya know what don’t happen all the time? A federal agent bein’ gunned down by an assassin. A bastard who’ll risk shootin’ up the ATF offices and leavin’ a goddamn bullet as a warnin’!”

The detective was so stunned by Vin’s sudden action that he scarcely had time to blink before Ezra intervened. “Vin!” Ezra set a hand on his shoulder. “Back off before you end up in the jail! He’s following procedures. Remember those? Procedures. Ring a bell?”

“Sorry,” Vin released his grip and backed off. “Sorry.”

The detective ran a hand around his collar, adjusting it. “I’ll accept your apology, Agent Tanner, due to the circumstances.” He sighed and looked at the papers in front of him. “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll bump this guy to the top of the missing person’s list and put out an alert to be on the lookout for him. He hasn’t done anything criminal, and there’s no reason to think he’s involved in this.” 

Vin just leaned forward and fixed him with a look that made the detective blink. “Jist so ya know. Ya might be lookin’ fer a body. C’mon, Ezra. Let’s git outta here.”

Ezra backed out of the office, voicing a silent apology. He found Vin in the hall, bent nearly double, his shoulders shaking. “That’s it. We’re done for the night – and I will call Agent Colton if I have to, in order to make you admit you’re exhausted.”

Vin straightened up. “I’m all right. Jist -- ”

Ezra reached for his phone, and Vin gave up. A red haze of fear and frustration had swept through him like a tidal wave and had receded, leaving only a chill in its wake. He shivered. “Let’s git outta here, Ezra. I cain’t take much more of this.” 

“It’s about time you realized that you are not endowed with an endless reserve of stamina like the Energizer Bunny.”

“Cute, Ez.” Vin was too tired to glower. “Do me a favor and call a cab. I rode in with Sam.”

“No self-respecting cabby will risk his life driving into Purgatorio at this hour.”

Vin raised a brow. “Are you gonna risk yer rocket car?”

“That is not what I intended, my friend. But I will drive you to my humble abode if you will agree to it.”

Vin nodded, reason bowing to need. He was too exhausted to argue and he sure as hell wasn’t going to walk home. And, if he admitted it to himself, he didn’t particularly want to be alone tonight. “Thanks, Ezra. I’ll take ya up on that.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

He couldn’t fault Ezra’s guest room; the bed was more than comfortable, the sheets were cool and smooth. He was exhausted, but his over-wrought body wouldn’t relax. He finally gave up, put on his athletic shoes and wearing the sweats Ezra had loaned him, he went out for a run. No worries about crime in Ezra’s gated community. After running for a while, he slowed to a walk, cooling down. His watch said it was 2am. He should sleep. He returned to Ezra’s and took a warm shower. When he stepped out of the bathroom, Ezra was leaning against the wall.

“Obviously, you are suffering from chronic insomnia.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake ya.”

“I wish I could say that you had, but, alas, you didn’t. I was about to try a nightcap. Care to join me?”

“I ain’t never turned one down,” Vin sighed. “S’long as it ain’t that leapfrog ya drink.”

Ezra rolled his eyes. “Laphroig. And you know it, seeing as you gave it to me for a birthday gift. Wild Turkey?”

“That’ll suit me jist fine.” 

They sat in Ezra’s great room, lights dim and quiet. Neither man talked much, but Vin, for the first time, felt that Ezra believed him to be an equal, not some Texas rube. And Ezra came to the realization that Vin believed him to be a good man, a good agent and, at last, a friend. When their glasses were empty, they both turned in. 

Vin slept until Ezra woke him at 7am with a cup of coffee and some grim news. “I just got a call from Detective Morris – you know, the civil servant you nearly assaulted last night. They found the body of the shift supervisor in a dumpster behind his apartment.” 

Vin sat up in bed and took the mug of coffee before he commented. “I told him.” 

“I imagine that is why he called me, instead of you. I got the impression that humble pie is not his favorite dish.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“Gunshot wound.”

“Close range?”

“No.”

“God damn,” Vin sighed. He swung his legs out of bed. “Reckon we’d better get goin’. Did ya call Sam?”

“Yeah. He’s waiting for us at the ME’s office.”

“I’ll be ready to ride in about 10 minutes. You?”

“Meet you at the front door.”

 

Chapter 8

 

The office of the Medical Examiner was an ugly, square red brick building on Bannock Street. Sam thought it was fairly representative of every Coroner’s and ME office he’d ever been in. It was across the street from the Denver Health Medical Center and a stone’s throw from Mercy, where Chris Larabee was a patient. It was a scant two miles from the ATF field offices. 

Sam waited outside for Vin and Ezra. He’d been in plenty of morgues and this one looked the same as most: functional to the point of being non-descript as if it were aware of the gravity of its purpose. It was a warm day, but overcast and the wind from the Rockies had that peculiar friction to it that presaged a coming storm. He hunched his shoulders inside his jacket, feeling chilled, but not really cold. 

Ezra’s Jaguar swung around the corner and into a parking lot across the street. The two agents loped across the street towards him. He had been surprised to learn that Vin had spent the night at Ezra’s condo. Both of them seemed so solitary, but somehow the sharpshooter and the card shark had found common ground. 

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Sam greeted them. “Isn’t this a grand way to start the day?”

“It does make one wonder what the rest of the day will bring,” Ezra drawled. “Shall we get this over with?” He started up the stairs. 

Sam turned to Vin, who was lagging behind. “You all right?” he asked.

“Yeah.” He paused and sighed. “I been in too many of these damn places fer comfort. Ya never git used to it. Once ya smell death, the stink stays with you fer the rest of your life.”

Sam set a hand on Vin’s shoulder. “I know. C’mon. Might as well put it behind us as quickly as possible.”

Ezra was already gowned and talking to the pathologist when Sam and Vin entered the autopsy room. He looked up, shrugged. “You don’t need an MD after your name to figure this one out.”

The pathologist nodded in agreement. “Healthy Hispanic male with a gunshot wound to the head being the cause of death. “Here’s the recovered bullet. It’s pretty fragmented. The DPD found this cartridge casing by the body, and this …” He held out an evidence bag with a single, pristine cartridge inside. 

Vin looked at both. “It’s our shooter, Sam. Bucklin was right, the sonovabitch is playin’ with our heads”

The pathologist nodded. “It looks like it. I’ll have the bullets sent over to your lab for ballistics tests.

It seemed a waste of time to wait for a courier but Sam nodded. “Keep the chain of custody clear. Once we get the bastard, I don’t want any Public Defender claiming that the evidence was tainted by our personal involvement in the case.”

“I will stay and document that,” Ezra offered. “I can see no reason for three of us to be in this place of misery.”

Vin raised a brow. “You’re volunteerin’?”

“Dr. Lee and I share several common interests.” 

“Right,” Vin didn’t sound convinced. “Any of those professional?”

“Horses, fine wine, a penchant for certain games of chance …” Ezra’s green eyes were both innocent and calculating. 

“Better you than me,” Vin said and turned to Sam. “I’d kinda like to check in on Chris.”

“I think we’ll have to,” Sam said. “Maybe something about the ammunition can help us pinpoint the shooter. There has to be something significant about those cartridges.” 

Leaving Ezra to deal with legalities of chain of custody of evidence, Sam and Vin drove the few blocks to the hospital. Sam knew Tanner was a silent man, but there was a stillness in his silence today that spoke more of tension than habit. He didn’t know the sharpshooter well enough to assume that the tension was the result of the case in general, or his friendship with Larabee. Or, more likely, both. He decided to say nothing and let Tanner deal with his emotions in his own way. So, it was a good thing that the drive was a short one because long silences were just too damn awkward.

Chris had been moved back to his room. There was a uniformed officer sitting outside the door, and another further down the corridor. Sam and Vin showed their badges and the officer stepped aside to let them enter. 

Sam though Larabee looked worse than he had two days earlier. Vin saw something different. Yesterday, Chris’s color had been due to a fever and the marks of pain had been carved deep. Now, his pallor was consistent with his blood loss, and his features, though drawn, were no longer tense. His eyes were closed, his hands relaxed on the covers, not clenched around the morphine pump like it was salvation. 

Sam touched Vin’s arm lightly. “You stay. I’m going back to the office to coordinate with JD and Josiah. I’ll be back later.”

Vin nodded. “Thanks, Sam. I ‘preciate it.”

“He’ll find remembering easier without pressure.”

“Hell, Larabee invented the word,” Vin smiled slightly at Sam. “It ain’t you.”

“Thanks. Still, I have work to do that you can’t, so let’s just deal with what works for both of us.” He gave a last look at Chris. “Tell him he’s a hard act to follow.”

Vin sat in the chair and turned the TV to low, watching nothing in particular, until Chris stirred and opened his eyes. They were clear, if drowsy. He rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Eleven o’clock, Thursday. Last time you were awake it was Wednesday morning. Doc Stone took ya back into surgery. Ya had an infection that needed to be cleaned out.”

Chris frowned. “You knew.”

“I guessed. The doc did all the rest. How d’you feel?”

“Better.” He seemed surprised by that. “You mind handing me that water?”

Vin held the glass while Larabee drank, then sat back and narrowed his eyes. “The shooter’s back. He killed a man on the cleaning crew, then took his place and shot up the office. He left souvenirs at each site.” He held out the cartridge that had been left on Chris’s desk. “Lapua .338 caliber, match quality. I’m thinkin’ he used a sniper rifle customized for his needs.”

“What does that mean?” Chris asked curiously.

“It’s got merc written all over it,” Vin said. “German manufacture. The shooter might be ex-Stasi, maybe Spetsnaz. That mean anything to you?”

Chris shook his head. “Not right off the bat – or at least not when my brain feels like tapioca. Any ideas?” 

“We’re talking big money, Chris. Big. A lot at stake, or somebody out for a shitload of revenge. One scary dude.”

“Does he scare you?”

Vin sank down into a slouch and fixed Chris with a bright, speculative study. “Mebbe. But not when I’ve got the bastard in my sights. You c’n put him there, Chris.”

“I can’t put two and two together,” Chris said irritably. 

“Give it another day b’fore you start beatin’ yourself over the head with it. Meanwhile, I reckon you’ll let us know if we shook something loose with the ballistics information. And JD’s contacting Interpol to see if the MO matches anybody in their profiles.” Vin saw something shift in Chris’s eyes. “What?”

Chris answered almost reluctantly as the memory returned. “Back when I was in DC, one of the first cases I worked on involved a former East German crime syndicate boss who was trying to gain access to the US following the fall of the Berlin Wall. They were looking for a way into gun-running … drugs … prostitution … A real stew of racketeering. So much for the “pure” East German State. Anyway, Interpol was the lead agency. ATF was still part of the Treasury Department so we were the primary investigators in the States.”

“What was the outcome?” 

“The crime boss, Günter Strasser, was arrested at JFK after trying to bribe his way past customs with about five mil in diamonds stitched into the lining of his luggage.”

“He still in prison?” Vin asked.

“How the hell should I know?” Chris said. “He was extradited to Germany. Ask JD.”

Vin had to bite back a sharper than usual retort. Lines of pain were beginning to radiate from the corners of Chris’s eyes and tighten the corners of his mouth. Vin’s irritation faded quickly. He touched Chris’s shoulder. “Easy, cowboy. It’s jist that you mighta found the money and motive behind the shootings.”

“But why?” Chris was clearly frustrated. “I was the junior agent on the case. I spent 90 percent of the time pushing a pen across paper.”

“Somethin’ ya did the other ten percent musta raised a red flag, Larabee.” Vin leaned forward. “This ain’t the time fer modesty, jist in case that’s what’s holdin’ ya back.”

“I was there when they arrested him,” Chris finally admitted. “I testified at his extradition hearing.”

“Bingo.” Vin stood. “Sorry to chat and run, but I reckon I’d better get back to the office with this. JD can find out if Strasser is still in prison.”

“It’s just a guess, Vin.”

“It’s the only thing we have to go on. You hang in there, cowboy, and I’ll git back to ya.”

Chris’s green eyes focused clearly on him. “Vin, watch your back. If this bastard can’t get to me, he’ll take down those close to me.”

“Chris … ya don’t think he was behind … Sarah and Adam …” Vin faltered. 

“I don’t know.” This time the anguish was palpable. “Find him, Vin.”

“I will.” There was no hesitation in his promise. He and Chris gripped forearms as they always did; pledging brotherhood. Chris relaxed against the pillows, exhausted by the memories and emotions. 

Vin stepped out into the corridor. The guards were still outside the door, but they seemed suddenly vulnerable and inadequate. He called Sam. 

Colton answered on the first ring. “Chris thought of somethin’,” Vin said. “I’m on my way back to the office. Sam, get another team down here on security. We’re gonna need it.”

“You got it.”

“And Sam, ask JD to check with Interpol on the status of a Günter Strasser. Chris helped put him behind bars in Germany. It was one of Chris’s first cases as an ATF agent. It shouldn’t be hard to pinpoint the date.”

“Be careful,” Sam said. “The shooter’s still out there.”

“Don’t I know it. See ya in a few.” Vin stepped out into the heat of the day. The sky was darkening over the mountains and the air tasted of ozone and dust. Any other time, Vin would have walked to the office, but at the last minute, he decided to hail a taxi. No sense in getting soaked if the skies decided to open up.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7  
The shooter cursed. He’d had Tanner in his sights until the sonovabitch had suddenly darted into traffic to flag down a damn cab. The shooter lowered his eye from the sight and broke down the rifle. He slid it into the canvas tool bag he carried and slipped out of the vacant office. His anger over being denied the shot, cooled. Tanner had never been his intended target. Larabee should be getting out of the hospital in a few days. He’d call his employer, explain his plan. He’d drive out to Larabee’s ranch and survey the countryside. He smiled. He could hunt his prey and kill in the open, without fear of being caught. 

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Vin arrived at the office as the skies opened up; rain, thunder, lightning all chased down the mountains by a cold front that struck through his denim shirt and made him shake with a chill. He was nearly soaked to the skin in the few seconds it took for him to run from the curb to the building entrance. He handed his ID to the guard who took a more careful look than usual and scanned the magnetic strip that allowed him to pass through the security gates. All those safeguards and the shooter had still found a way in. That made another shiver work its way down Vin’s spine.

He caught the elevator up to the office and pushed his way in, heading first for the coat rack where he stripped off his denim shirt. His t-shirt was still fairly dry below the shoulders. He pulled his ATF sweatshirt from the hook, tugged it over his head, and went to the coffee machine for a mug of steaming brew. 

“Hey, Vin --”

“JD, did Sam tell you what to pull up out of those old files?”

“Yeah, I’m nearly done. I have to send the stuff to Sam’s computer. And I found some newspaper articles archived in the Washington Post that might help.”

“Send ‘em to Ezra. Ez, get in here.” 

He knocked quickly on Sam’s door and shoved in without waiting for permission to enter. He seldom barged in on Chris, even more rarely issued orders to his fellow teammates. He figured the others were looking at him like he’d landed from Mars. But his heart was banging against his ribs like a jackhammer and he felt as if no mere cup of hot coffee could warm him.

Sam was at the desk, files fanned out in front of him. His dark eyes were focused as they scanned from the papers in front of him, to his computer monitor. The phone headset was jammed between his shoulder and his ear. He glanced up at Vin. “Sit down,” he mouthed, and then spoke to the other party. “Are you sure? No mistake? Thank you.” He hung up, cursed. “Shit.”

“What?” Vin sat forward on the sofa. “Bad news?”

“You might say so. Günter Strasser died in a German prison a year ago. Lung cancer. It’s not him.”

“Shit,” Vin echoed. He slumped against the sofa, laid his head back. “Shit.”

Ezra knocked and looked in on them. “Judging from the glum expressions on your faces, gentlemen, I’m guessing that there is no good news from Interpol?” He cocked a brow, inquiringly.  
“Join us?” Sam invited, and Ezra did, sitting down next to Vin. Unlike Tanner, he managed to stay upright, even on the worn cushions. Sam sighed. “Our prime suspect, Günter Strasser died in prison last year.”

“But his son is still alive,” Ezra provided. He set some papers in front of Sam. “Wilhelm Strasser, age 51. CEO and majority stockholder of a German communications conglomerate. His worth is conservatively estimated at a quarter of a billion dollars. He has homes in Berlin, Gstaad, the Riviera, and the Cayman Islands.”

“Cayman Islands … as in a good place to stash undeclared resources?” Sam asked.

“Undeclared and virtually untraceable.” Ezra leaned forward. “Unless you know the system.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you aren’t suggesting that you –”

Ezra somehow managed to look both wounded and calculating at the same time. “I am not speaking of myself, sadly. My assets, while protected, are entirely legitimate. Ask our friends at the IRS. However, my mother has had liaisons with several exceedingly wealthy individuals who underestimated her poor li’l feminine IQ and ability to comprehend financial matters.”

“We cannot bring an outsider into this case,” Sam warned.

“Not at all!” Ezra raised his hand. “But I might be able to call in a few favors in the financial world.”

“If we need it, I’ll ask.” Sam said, but his eyes held a warning; a look disconcertingly like Chris’s. “Let’s see what JD has for us. Ezra, take a look at the financials. Vin, take the Interpol files. Look for sniper shootings that match the MO. If Strasser is our money, then he must have hired a pro to do his dirty work. Pros don’t work in a vacuum.”

Ezra stood. “I should be able to get that information in twenty-four hours or less. Is that a reasonable time frame?”

“I’d prefer sooner rather than later,” Sam said. “But do your best. Thanks, Ezra. You do good work.”

Ezra looked surprised for an instant, then he smiled. “Thank you.” Simple and elegant, and all Sam needed to hear.

Vin waited until Ezra was gone and the door closed before he spoke. “Any thoughts on the shooter?”

Vin’s spine slid down lower. He looked at Sam from beneath lowered lashes. “I got the ballistics report. I was right, Lapua match grade ammo. Rifling on the cartridge matched the Blaser sniper rifle. Also German manufacture. I think Strasser junior is lookin’ good for the money. Shooter might also be German. Former Stasi, most likely. I ran up against a few of ‘em hired as mercs in Chechnya.”

Sam folded his arms. “Really?”

“Yeah, but what a sniper does in a firefight ain’t like shootin’ fer a kill. Cain’t recall hearin’ about one leavin’ cartridges as his signature. But not all shooters leave signatures.”

“Did you?”

Vin’s blue eyes took on that thousand yard stare. He wouldn’t have talked to anybody but another sniper so frankly. “My sig was the bodies. Didn’t need anything else.” He sighed. “I don’t do what I do fer personal glory, Sam. Ev’ry time I make a kill, I feel sick. Folks ask sometimes if I *like* what I do. Shit. I hate it. But least when I do it, I know I’m savin’ somebody’s life fer every life I take. Maybe more than one. This guy … he likes killin’, Sam. He does it for the fuckin’ money! Makes me want to vomit.”

Sam nodded, seeing every emotion in Tanner’s body language and soft raspy voice. He understood exactly. A sniper was like a scalpel in the arsenal of war – sharp and fine – a weapon that could both save and kill. A man had to have pride in his skills, pride in his job, but not pride in the taking of a life. Pride turned to pleasure too easily. He saw many things in Vin; regret, determination, skill, and pride in doing his job; but not pride in the destruction of flesh and blood. He was a good man down to the depths of his soul, no matter how many notches he had on his gun. Sam hoped he could say the same about himself.

“You look like a man who could use a steak and a night’s sleep,” Sam said, seeing the fatigue in Tanner’s face and body. “I’ll buy, if you promise to get the second.”

“What about the Interpol reports?” Vin asked. “Ya want that on your desk, I’ll need time.”

“Ezra has twenty-four hours. I can give you the same.”

“We might not have twenty-four hours.” Vin said. “I’ll git started, then take ya up on your offer in a couple hours.”

“See that you do. I mean it.”

Sam’s phone rang and he answered it, listening for a moment, then directing Vin to stay with a motion of his hand. “You’re sure? Thanks.” He hung up. “That was Buck’s evidence tech, Kerry. They found a cartridge.”  
“Where?”

“In the room where the shooter stood when he shot Larabee. On the window ledge.”

“The bastard came back and placed it. He’s watchin’ every move.” He stood up, implacable and suddenly very dangerous. “That means he’s watchin’ Chris. I’m goin’ to the hospital.” He seemed to be at the door without hardly moving.

“Vin –” Sam called him back. “If he’s watching Chris, he’s also watching all of us, so be safe, you hear.”

“I’m livin’. Don’t worry about me, Sam. There’s plenty who tried to kill me, and they’re the ones in the ground.”

Sam studied him, dark eyes both understanding and concerned. “Wait.” He shut down the computer. “I’m going with you.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris was about ready to climb the walls. After forty-eight hours on IV antibiotics most of his pain had subsided to a manageable level. He no longer needed morphine, just Tylenol with codeine, and that at night so he could sleep. He ached; his ribs still felt like somebody had tied them in knots and let them spring back unrestrained, and the pull of the healing muscles in his chest made him catch his breath at any unwary movement. But he wanted out of the hospital. The constant presence of the guard outside his door and his own instincts had set his nerves into overdrive. 

If he were in better shape, he would have paced. Instead, he shuffled and counted each turn of the room a victory. Yesterday, he had made three circuits of the room before giving in to weakness. Today, he pushed himself to eight and was trying for a ninth when his strength wavered and failed …

“Whoa, there, Larabee!” Vin caught him just as he was about to drop. “Ya got a pressin’ need to run laps here?” He helped him over to the bed. “You’re lucky it was just me and Sam at the door and not Doc Stone. She’d ream ya a new one.” He handed Chris his water glass. 

Chris took a few sips and wiped his forehead with his sleeve and then a few more while Sam spoke to the guard outside and Vin watched him with a look that wasn’t far off from Elizabeth Stone’s. He could feel his heart pounding at first, but it slowed quickly, and the trembling in his legs subsided as the muscles relaxed. “Thanks. I was fine until that last turn around the room.”

“Right.” 

“Vin, I have to get out of here.”

“That’s my line,” Vin said, half in jest, but leaning forward to search Chris’s face. “This ain’t about claustrophobia and bad food, is it?”

“No.” 

Before Chris could elaborate, Sam came into the room and closed the door, blocking the glass deliberately, even though it was reeded and nearly opaque. “What’s going on – besides wanting to get out of here?”

Chris didn’t want to admit it, but his instincts weren’t screaming at him for nothing. He’d learned to listen to them. “I’m not sure it’s safe here. Not for me, not for anybody else. I’m a target, which makes everybody around me a target. We’re professionals, we make ourselves targets every time we go out on an op. But these people here – innocent civilians; doctors, nurses, staff, other patients – I’m not willing to take the chance that this shooter has a conscience when it comes to sparing their lives.”

Sam crossed his arms and studied the toes of his boots. “Okay, just supposing we can get a medical release, where will you go that will be more safe than here?”

“Home. To the ranch. Nobody within shouting distance to be in danger if bullets start flying, good lines of sight from the house, and secure.” 

“How secure?”

Vin gave a soft snort. “Fort Knox secure. Chris ain’t lyin’, Sam. He’d be safe there … I’d make sure of it.”

“What about your medical issues?” Sam asked. “You don’t look like a man who should be released from the tender mercies of Dr. Stone – who scares *me*, by the way.” 

Chris laughed, winced. “Nathan is a certified EMT. He was combat support medic in the army. There isn’t much he can’t handle. And he’s an expert marksman and trains at the highest level of Krav Maga.”

Sam raised a brow. “So I shouldn’t get in any arguments with him?” 

“I wouldn’t suggest it. Sam, I’m not stupid. I wouldn’t ask to get out of here if I felt my life was in medical jeopardy. I’m healing. The infection is better. I can be on oral antibiotics for the rest of the course. Yes, I asked about that.” Exasperation crept into Chris’s voice. “Get it done.”

“Vin, see if you can track down Elizabeth Stone,” Sam finally acquiesced. “You’re not going anywhere, Larabee, without her imprimatur on your discharge papers.” 

“Are you giving me orders?” Chris asked, amused.

“Damn straight. I’ve got them from on high.”

“Travis.” Chris sighed. “I’m not surprised.” 

Both men looked vaguely alarmed as they heard the tap-tap of approaching heels … Elizabeth Stone’s heels. The doctor shoved open the door, followed by a serious-looking Vin Tanner. She stood at the foot of the bed, glowering at Chris. Vin glanced at Sam, then settled against the wall to watch the fireworks.

“Are you insane?” she challenged without preamble. 

“Not according to my last psych evaluation,” Chris said. 

“This is not the time to bandy words with me, Larabee. There is no way I’m discharging you.”

“Then I’ll do it RoR.”

“Like hell you will! Not on my watch.”

“Did Vin tell you why I’m asking?”

“There’s a reason beyond insanity?”

“I didn’t shoot myself,” Chris began to plead his case. “I wasn’t a victim of random violence. Somebody hired a mercenary sniper to take me down – a professional. He won’t back down easily. He’ll try again if he wants to get paid, and he won’t care who gets caught in the crossfire. You, your staff, other patients … The only thing that matters is that he shoots me dead.” His green eyes were level, utterly serious. “Antibiotics and pain killers can’t protect me, or you, from that kind of vengeance.”

“We can protect him. You can’t.” Sam said, the words sounding cold and hard, but sometimes the truth was like that.

If Elizabeth Stone could look stunned, she did for a moment just then. She knew that what they did was dangerous; not your standard ATF bureaucratic work. She knew they were a special unit that dealt with the big crimes – arson, gun-smuggling. Terrorism. She had, at one time or another, treated every member of the team for injuries suffered in the line of duty. She had never dwelled on the thought that the violence which caused those injuries could reach her. Now she saw the truth in Chris Larabee’s eyes and she didn’t know how to defend herself against that brutal honesty.

The doctor looked to Vin. “Can you?”

Vin’s blue eyes were every bit as hard as Colton’s words. “It’s a fine line b’tween the hunter and the hunted,” he said in that soft rasp of a voice that made chills run down her spine. “But I reckon I know where that line is.” He could see the doubt in Elizabeth's Stone's eyes as she turned to Sam, seeking confirmation. 

She turned to Sam. “Is he right?”

“This bastard has Larabee in his sights. He won’t back down, he won’t give up. I hate to admit it, but Chris is right. We can’t protect the hospital, or you, as long as he’s a patient here.”

She sighed. “This goes against everything I believe. I took an oath to do no harm.”

“And I took an oath to protect and defend,” Chris said. “I think mine takes precedence.”

There was a long silence as she looked from one man to another, finally pausing on Larabee. “Suppose I agree to releasing you – I will only consider it if you swear on a stack of bibles that Nathan will stay at your side and in communication with me regarding your physical condition. One blip on the radar, and you’re coming back here, danger or not. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” Chris grimaced. “On a stack of bibles.”

“It’s your life I have to save,” she said.

“No, it’s yours. Do it. Discharge me.” 

For a moment, she was silent. Then she stood slowly. “I’ll have the papers drawn up for tomorrow. So help me, Chris Larabee, if you die, I don’t want Ezra filing a lawsuit on behalf of the ATF.”

Chris laughed. “Deal.” His eyes were brighter than they had been in days, despite the fact that it was his life that was in danger. For the first time since he had been shot, he felt like he was back in control. 

 

Chapter 10

 

Sam drove back to the office, the two blocks taking longer during rush hour. He kept a surreptitious eye on Tanner, slouched in the corner of his truck. The posture was deceptive; the Texan’s spine might be relaxed but his hands betrayed him. Sam knew the feeling. He also knew that Vin’s words were true … 

He looked at Tanner. “I grew up in the Carolina mountains. My daddy was a hunter. He put my first gun in my hands when I was eight. Told me it was time to be a man. My first kill was a wildcat about to drop on my daddy’s shoulders. He told me I had just learned the difference between hunter and prey and how that could change in the blink of an eye.”

“Yer daddy was a smart man. Like my grandpa.” It was all Vin offered, and Sam wasn’t going to push it. He’d grown up poor, lost his mother when he was ten and moved around with his father after that. But he’d always had a roof over his head and food on the table. He’d seen Tanner’s file. It had been pretty skimpy until his army enlistment. No living relatives. Too many addresses to count, and gaps in his life that were more telling than pages of words. 

He wheeled into the parking garage and stopped in the spot reserved for Larabee. He hated parking there, but it was assigned to him. It had to give Tanner a jolt. But when he looked over, Vin’s face was impassive. 

“We’ve got to plan for tomorrow,” Sam said. “It’s a bitch.”

“Yeah. But ‘least Chris’ll be out of the hospital.”

“How many acres are we talking about?” Sam asked, hoping the answer would be somewhere between fifteen and forty.

Vin laughed softly. “’Bout a hundred and fifty.” 

“Shit.” 

“Hell, his neighbor’s got close to five hundred. So be thankful for small favors.” 

“Right.” And Vin laughed. Sam had to smile, Vin’s laughter had echoed Dusty’s. God, he missed his sons. The sooner this was over, the sooner he could get on with his life. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

“You’re what?” Buck stared at Vin and Sam in outrage. “You can’t take Chris out of the hospital! He had surgery two days ago, damn near died, and can barely sit upright for more than fifteen minutes without lookin’ like a wrung out washrag.”

“I’m sure Mr. Larabee would appreciate that description of his physical condition,” Ezra drawled, “However, I believe he would argue the point that it is preferable to being dead.” 

“If it doesn’t kill him!” Buck fumed. He fixed Sam with a glare that rivaled Larabee’s. “Whose idea was this? Yours?”

“Easy, Buck.” Nathan broke in before Wilmington’s hot temper made him say something he’d regret to his superior. “Elizabeth Stone agreed to that?” he asked. 

Sam looked at the faces of Team Seven, from Buck’s anger, to Nathan’s concern, to JD, who seemed to be torn between loyalty to Wilmington, and his instincts that if Vin was on Sam’s side, then there must be a valid reason to get Chris out of the hospital. Josiah’s face betrayed nothing beyond interest in the dynamic, though Sam didn’t doubt there was more going on in the profiler’s mind behind the impassive countenance. 

He stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and leaned against Vin’s desk. The last thing he wanted was to let all the emotion in the room send him into full SAC mode. That wasn’t his style, and he was damn sure it wasn’t Larabee’s way of handling divisions in the team. 

“Elizabeth Stone agreed under some duress. Given two scenarios; one with Chris remaining in the hospital and endangering the lives of other patients and employees, and the other with Chris in a controlled environment of *our* choosing, not the shooter’s, she chose the one that made the most sense.”

“It doesn’t make sense if Chris dies.” Buck wasn’t going down without a fight. 

“It made sense to Chris,” Sam replied. “And it ought to make sense to all of us.”

“Well, it doesn’t.”

Vin broke his silence. “Think on it, Bucklin. Who’d you trust in Chris’s place? The DPD or us?”

Buck opened his mouth, closed it. Shook his head. “What kinda question is that?”

“The same one me and Sam asked when Chris said he wanted out of the hospital.” 

Buck threw up his hands in defeat. “Fine. But I won’t be the man layin’ Chris in his grave, so you’d better have a good plan, Junior.”

“That’s why we’re here, Bucklin. JD, get on Google Earth and let’s have a look-see at Chris’s ranch.”

By the time they had finished, it was past dusk and Vin’s voice had nearly given out. He sagged against JD’s desk, completely played out. He’d been awake for thirty-six hours and hadn’t had a real meal since the dinner with Ezra. Sam, not much better off than Vin, and with more physical reserves despite his age, felt ancient and dry as an old husk. 

He straightened from the desk with an effort. “We’ve done all we can until tomorrow.” His voice was hoarse. “Go home. Get some sleep. Vin and I will escort Chris from the hospital to the ranch. The rest of you set up at the ranch. I’ll clear it with Travis tonight.” Sam went into the office, wanting to get that chore over with quickly as possible. 

There was very little conversation as the others filed out. Buck looked back at Vin, still leaning against the desk. “You comin’, Junior?”

“Naw, I’ll wait for Sam. He’ll drive me home.”

Buck gave him a long, thoughtful study. “Vin, what’s going on here?”

“I’m too damn tired to figure out that one,” Vin said, a wariness flitting across his eyes.

“You trust Colton?”

“Yeah. He ain’t showed me any reason why I shouldn’t.”

“The same way you trust Chris?”

Vin straightened and wished Buck weren’t so damn tall. “If you’re asking if I think Sam’s the same as Chris – There ain’t nobody like Chris – ” He was fighting to keep his voice steady. “But I trust Sam. I trust him with my life and with Chris’s, so don’t go getting’ all green-eyed and defensive over this. It ain’t a contest. Never was.” He turned towards the office. 

“Vin … you’re right.”

He halted, turned back to Buck. “If ya trust me, you ought to trust Sam. Chris does, and that should be good enough.” 

Buck ran a hand through his thick hair. “Yeah, it should be. I’m just worn out. And you look damn tired, Junior.”

Vin smiled wearily. “Ya got that right. G’night, Bucklin.” He watched the tall man amble out, then knocked on the office door.

Sam was on the phone, but judging from his expression, this wasn’t a business call. He was smiling, relaxed in his chair. He looked up at Vin, indicated that he should wait a moment, then laughed at something. “Okay, son. You take care of yourself and tell Ryan that he can’t text grandma. Goodnight, Dustin.” He hung up. “My son.”

“Sounds like a good kid.”

“He is. Lauren raised those boys right. I was away too much of the time to be a real hands-on father, but I did what I could, when I could.” He rubbed his eyes. “I’m waiting for Travis to call. I had to page him. I hate to ask you to wait.”

“Naw, I’ll jist stretch out on the couch fer a while, if ya don’t mind.” He dropped down on the couch and laid his head back against the cushions, slouched down, eyes closed.

“Go right ahead –” The phone rang and Sam answered it. Vin listened to the conversation, heard Sam talking low and urgently about their plan for Chris’s release and relocation to the ranch. He sat up, looking at Sam, listening. Sam’s dark eyes were fixed on his, a frown creasing his forehead as he spoke. Finally, he thanked Travis and hung up. “It’s a go,” he said.

Vin sighed. “Good … that’s good. I’ll call –”

“No. We’ll get something to eat, then I’ll drive you home and you’ll get a good night’s sleep. You’ve got enough to deal with tomorrow. Larabee is safe for tonight. Travis contacted the US Marshals. They’re providing protection until we leave the hospital tomorrow morning.”

“You’re the boss,” Vin said. He tried to suppress his groan of pain and exhaustion as his back tightened.

“You all right?” Sam asked.

“Yeah. My back wasn’t too good t’begin with – I took some shrapnel when I was in the Rangers. Cut me up good. Still hurts. But it don’t stop me from doin’ my job,” he added, as if that were necessary.

“I guess not.” Sam looked at the citations on the wall. “Those are some fine trophies.”

Vin shook his head. “They’re for the team. That’s why Chris puts ‘em up.”

Sam wasn’t going to argue, but he suspected the truth. Larabee had them displayed because he knew Tanner would put them in a drawer and let them yellow; the same way Sam had put his medals away despite Lauren’s objections. He wasn’t proud of the death’s he’d caused, and he didn’t want Dustin and Ryan to think he was some kind of hero because he was good with a gun. 

He pushed away from the desk. “Let’s get out of here. I could use some grub.”

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

They ate at Marty’s, the diner across the street. Vin did his best to do justice to the pot roast he had ordered, but he was so tired just getting the food to his mouth was a chore. Sam wolfed down his meatloaf; more hungry than he had realized for hearty, down-home food. They finished with apple pie and coffee. Sam doubted there was enough caffeine in the world to keep him awake tonight. At least now there was some color in Tanner’s pale cheeks. They didn’t say much, each man weary and preoccupied. 

Sam motioned the waitress over for their check. When Vin dug in his pocket for money, Sam shook his head. “I’ve got it.” 

Vin wasn’t inclined to argue. “My treat next time.”

Sam’s brow went up. “You think I’ll be around that long?”

“Ya got five weeks before Chris is back at his desk.”

“I’ll take you up on that … later.” 

Sam dropped Vin off at his apartment. Purgatorio made him wary, but having grown up in his share of marginal neighborhoods, he wasn’t squeamish about driving there and waiting for Vin to signal from his apartment that all was well. He watched the windows for the light, and when it didn’t come on, he charged out of the truck, into the building. The lock on the inner door had been jimmied. Sam pulled out his gun and bounded up the stairs. Tanner’s floor was silent, the door to his apartment was open, but it was dark inside. 

“Vin?” Sam whispered harshly. “You in there?” He edged into the doorway. There was just enough light coming through the tall windows to silhouette a dark, bulky figure and to glint off the dull barrel of a pistol. Sam spun and fired, the answering report sending a bullet splintering off the doorframe. He dropped to his knee, saw the shape briefly backlit by the window and fired again. The shooter’s second bullet scored across his arm, tearing a rip in his jacket sleeve and when Sam ducked behind the sofa for cover, the shooter broke for the door, firing as he backed out. 

“ATF!” A shot fired. Then a grunt of pain and the sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs.  
“Vin!” Sam was up and out the door. Tanner was sprawled against the wall, unmoving but for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Sam couldn’t see any blood, but he wasn’t about to take any chances. He fumbled for his phone, then cursed as he realized he’d left it in the truck. He pounded on the apartment door across the way.

A woman peered out through a scant inch. She saw Sam, his gun, and slammed the door. The lock and chain engaged. Sam knocked again and shouted through the door. “I’m ATF. Call 911. Tell them an officer is down.” 

Vin moved, gasped, “No! No, I’m okay, jist had the air knocked out of me.” He was panting and rubbing his ribcage. “Son of a bitch!” He reached out a hand and Sam hauled him upright. He limped over to the neighbor’s door. “Mrs. Ortiz. It’s okay. I’m okay. Ya don’t hafta call the cops.” He waited and the door opened a scant inch. “See … I’m fine.” The woman spoke in rapid Spanish and Vin reassured her in that language, gesturing to Sam as he spoke. Sam caught the word “jefe”, and had to smile. 

Vin went into his apartment, running a hand over the splintered wood. “Hell.” He was still hunched over and barely made it to the couch before he collapsed with another curse. Sam stood over him, frowning. 

“Do you need to go to the ER?” he asked.

“No. I’ve been hurt worse. Damn, the bastard caught me in the breastbone with his shoulder, charged me like a bull.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“Too dark. He was big, heavy.” He caught a look in Sam’s eyes. “I don’t think he was the shooter. He mighta jist been yer garden-variety thug.” 

“I don’t think so. We should call the police. Have them dust your apartment for prints.”

Vin closed his eyes. “Not the cops. That’ll really freak out the neighbors. Call our foresics team.”

Sam saw the utter exhaustion behind the pain. As much as he wanted to believe that the events of the night were just a coincidence, he wasn’t confident enough to trust in that assumption. He made a decision. “I’ll call. You pack up a duffle. You can stay at my condo tonight. We both need sleep and you won’t get it with forensics sweeping this place.” 

“I ain’t gonna argue with you,” Vin sighed. He rose, grimacing. “Damn ribs.” He shrugged and made a slow progress down the hall. 

Sam called the ATF evidence techs. Tanner was right. Better them than the DPD, though not for the same reason Vin didn’t want the cops called. Sam simply didn’t want to wade through a lot of bureaucratic red tape to get the results. He wanted them fast. There was still a slim chance that the intruder and the shooter were the same, though he doubted it. But if they could identify him and get him into custody, they might have a trail to follow. 

He went into the kitchen and opened the freezer, took out two trays of ice cubes and filled a baggie, which he wrapped in a towel. He took the makeshift ice-pack to Tanner, who was still sitting on the couch, his arms wrapped around his bruised ribs. "Here, this might help.

"Thanks." Vin took the baggie, hiked up his tee shirt and gingerly placed the pack against his skin. He shivered as the cold hit him and the adrenaline of the attack began to wear off. Sam tossed him the quilt from the rocking chair without saying a word. He went into the kitchen again, and after searching through several cupboards, found Tanner's liquor supply. He looked at the bottles – everything from tequila, to a fine single malt Scotch. Interesting, but he would have bet that Vin wasn't a Scotch drinker. Now the bottle of Wild Turkey, that was what Larabee drank, and most likely, Tanner. It was Sam's liquor of choice, too.

He poured two glasses and put ice in them, then carried them into the living area. He gave one to Vin, who was wrapped in the quilt and still shivering. Sam wondered if he ought to call 911, but Vin was watching him with narrow blue eyes. "I'm good, Sam. And you're bad as Larabee." He took several sips of the liquor, and to Sam's relief, the shivering had abated by the time the forensics team arrived to do their job.

Sam and Vin related the events of the night and the techs started gathering evidence. There wouldn't be fingerprints, Sam thought. "Were they wearing gloves?" he asked Vin.

"Didn't see any skin showin'," Vin said. "So there ain't any reason to dust every surface in the place."

"How about we do the door frame and outer door, the hall newel post, and the buzzer downstairs?" Kerry suggested. Her blonde hair was tousled and her blue eyes were shadowed. She'd been putting in long nights, too.

Vin shrugged. "Sounds good to me." He was so tired suddenly, he could scarcely hold his head up. He yawned hugely. "Sorry, it ain't the company."

"I know." She smiled at him. "I'm just glad Buck isn't here."

"Aww, he'd think you were pretty no matter what," Vin teased gently. "Thanks, Kerry. Ya could 'a passed this on to somebody else."

"Are you kidding? This is my case and I want to get that bastard who shot Chris as much as you do. It's personal, not just professional."

Sam held out his hand to her. "Consider this an official thanks. And I'll put a note in your folder for exceptional professionalism and attention to detail. I don't know how much weight I pull around here – not as much as Chris – but I'll make sure he sees it."

"Thank you, sir."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Sam."

Kerry gathered her team together along with plastic bags and the fingerprint kits. Sam thought it was a woefully small collection, but he hadn't expected more, he'd just hoped for it. "Come on, Vin, let's get out of here."

"Out?"

"You're not staying here tonight." Sam said. "First of all, the place isn't secure. Second, the perp might decide to come back and finish what he started. Third, you're exhausted and you can't tell me that you wouldn't be lying awake waiting to hear the next noise that wasn't familiar. Do I have to go on?"

As much as Vin wanted to argue, he couldn't refute Sam's words. Every one of them was true. "I've got a duffel in my bedroom, all packed and ready to go, and a bottle of Ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet. Think I'll need those real soon."

Sam got the Ibuprofen and a glass of water. "Here."

Vin swallowed three, then stood slowly. The quilt dropped from his shoulders. His hand rested briefly on it. He went into the kitchen and emptied the ice pack. He had hot and cold packs in his duffle, along with a first aid kit. He figured that would be plenty to see him through the night. By the morning, if his ribs were just bruised, he'd be okay; stiff, but able to work through the pain. He just wished the ibuprofen would kick in faster.

"One more thing," Vin said. He went into his bedroom. Despite the pain it caused him, he unlocked the hidden cubbyhole he'd constructed in the bottom of his closet and took out his extra gun and ammunition clips. He put them in the pocket of his duffel that he'd had Mrs. Ortiz stitch in. He hadn't explained why he needed a secure, padded pocket in the bag, but she hadn't asked, either. He attempted to hoist it over his shoulder, then gave up as his back and ribs tightened into a wrenching vise.

He carried it by the handle, and when Sam saw his face, he took it from him without a word. They took the stairs down to the first floor – Sam, with his gun cleared just in case, but they made it to his truck without incident and drove in silence to the rented condo downtown.

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the story. Snipers, plots, bad guys, good guys, and the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read the first part, I discovered that I had to add a few paragraphs at the end, so you can go back and just re-read the last four pages or so.

Chapter 9

As he drove, Sam kept an eye on the review mirror, but as far as he could tell, they weren't followed. To be sure, he took a circuitous route, avoiding the busier streets where it would be harder to spot a tail. Either Tanner was truly exhausted, or trusted him enough to fall into a doze as they rode. When they got to the parking garage, he roused Vin with a light touch on his arm. "We're here."

He opened his eyes. Like most soldiers, he was able to focus quickly without the blur of disorientation. He stretched out his back cautiously, testing the limits of pain. The ibuprofen had kicked in and he could move without cursing. He nodded to Sam. "I appreciate what you're doin'. Cain't say I exactly wanted t' stay at my place."

Sam's eyes warmed with a smile. "I figure we'll both sleep better for it." He turned off the ignition and got out of the truck, walking around to the passenger side.

Vin opened the door and would have carried his own duffel if Sam hadn't beaten him to it. The parking garage was nearly empty. Vin felt all his senses go on alert. He hated parking garages more than he hated elevators, which was saying quite a bit. But Colton was looking at him, concern in his eyes, so Vin put his own fears aside and followed him to the entrance to the building.

Colton unlocked the door using a key card and let Vin enter first. Sam hit a button on a panel and the lock engaged. As it did the lights went on, revealing an open, loft-type space. It was all pretty high-tech, but then Travis wouldn't put up a friend in a flea bag motel. The place must have been expensive; the ceilings were high, the concrete floors were softened with luxurious area rugs, and the furniture, though too modern for Vin's taste, looked comfortable, including the two leather recliners and sofa that faced a flat panel TV. The outside wall was glass, and through a filmy weave of drapes, the city lights glimmered like stars behind a veil of clouds. The condo even had a fireplace.

"Nice place ya got here, Sam."

Colton gave him a wry smile. "Travis seems to think I need to live in high style when low rent is more like what I'm used to. Dusty would love this place."

"College kid?" Vin asked.

"Oh, yeah. He'd see this as the ultimate party pad."

Vin laughed softly. "Don't reckon you're gonna give him the chance." "Not in this lifetime," Sam said. "The bedrooms are around that kitchen partition and each has its own bath. Mine's the one with the unmade bed."

"You've slept?" Vin asked, only half-joking.

"For about eight hours total since I got here. There's bottled water in the refrigerator, some food – not much, but the essentials. I'd offer you a beer, but I don't think it would set well with the pills and the whiskey."

"I'm fine, Sam. Thanks. I think I'll jist turn in. Maybe take some of that water with me, though." He held out his hand for the duffel and Sam gave it over before he went into the kitchen and got two bottles of water. Vin took his and made his way around the partition. It didn't take long for the lights to go off.

Sam turned on the TV and sank into a recliner. He was too beat to drag himself to bed without some down-time. He watched the end of a Law and Order episode he'd seen before, and called Buck to tell him what had happened and where Vin was for the night. Wilmington was not happy that he hadn't been called in to help, for which Sam apologized. He hoped the man wasn't the type to hold a grudge. He couldn't worry about that now. What he needed was a hot shower, a drink and about two days worth of sleep. The first two were on his immediate agenda; the third might happen once this case was wrapped up. Right now, he'd settle for six hours without a phone call from anybody.

He waited until all was quiet from Tanner's bedroom before he turned off the TV and the lights. He risked a glance around the wall that partitioned the two bedrooms from each other. Vin was stretched out on his stomach, completely still, the rise and fall of his ribcage barely visible. Sam went to his own room. After a quick shower, he lay down, closed his eyes, and that was all he remembered until his alarm went off at six a.m.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

From his hospital room, Chris watched the sun rising over the city. Despite the sleeping pills the nurses had dispensed with a liberal hand, he had waked early with the uncomfortable sensation of impending trouble. Then he remembered why and where the trouble was coming from. Since then he had been awake and waiting for the discharge orders. It was all being done on the QT. Elizabeth Stone had agreed to keep his release off the records for twenty-four hours and to make his departure early and discreet. The woman would have been a hell of a general, Chris mused. He'd been in military campaigns that were less well-organized than this covert op.

He took stock of his physical state, knowing that he could be putting his life in jeopardy with his decision to leave the hospital. He still felt far from well, though he knew he was healing. He no longer had a fever and the worst pain was from his broken ribs. There wasn't much that could be done for those but to let time take its course. Now that the infection was cleared, he no longer felt as if he were being stabbed in the belly. He just felt weak and wrung out. There wasn't a damn thing he could do about that, either.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Elizabeth Stone came at six a.m., her eyes shadowed and heavy as if she hadn't slept all night. However, her lab coat was starched and white and the crease down the center of her gray trousers was as sharp as the edge of a knife. She looked at his chart, frowning as she read, then took his vitals. She looked as if she wished she could find a reason to keep him there.

She folded her arms and sighed. "I shouldn't be doing this. But for the life of me, I can't find a medical reason to keep you here other than pure common sense."

"I've never put much store in that as a virtue."

She had to smile at that. "Risk and reward?"

"You've got it." Chris raised his arm, the IV tubing still attached to the back of his hand. "Are you going to take this off?" he asked.

"If I thought it would tether you, I'd keep it on, but I'm sure you're not above removing it yourself." She efficiently withdrew the IV needle and taped up the vein. "Drink plenty of fluids, preferably water without the bourbon."

"Give me some credit," he replied. "I know my limits."

"Prove it. Stay out of my ER." Then her stern look softened. "Chris, let the others do their job. Please. I don't take kindly to my patients dying on me."

"I'm not ready to die," Chris said, thinking that a few years ago, he would have gladly given up the ghost just to be with Sarah and Adam. But now… that seemed like another lifetime. This job, the team, the friendships, had pulled him from the brink of despair. It hadn't been easy and he'd fallen back more than a few times, but he had clawed his way back. "I won't die on your watch, Doc."

"Now you sound like Tanner." She sighed and folded her stethoscope. "I'll get your discharge papers. Even though I won't file them for another twenty-four hours, I still have to satisfy hospital protocol." She left the room, and Chris flexed the hand that had been tethered to the IV. There was still strength there, strength enough to fight.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Buck arrived at seven o'clock with his clothes. By then, he had shaved, cleaned up, and was ready to get out of the room before he climbed the walls. One look at Buck's face and he knew something was wrong.

"Are you going to tell me about it, or just stand there glowering?" Chris asked as he buttoned his shirt.

"Somebody broke into Vin's place last night."

Chris stopped mid-motion. "Is he all right?"

"Yeah. Colton was there. The guy fled after shoving Junior against a wall hard enough to bruise his ribs. Sam got off a few shots but there was no sign that either he or Vin marked the bastard."

Chris sat on the bed, strength ebbing. "Where is he?"

"With Sam at the condo Travis rented. They're fine. I talked to Vin a few minutes ago. He's sore, but at least he slept. They're going out to the ranch. I said I'd get you out there ASAP."

"Lucky you."

Buck grinned. "Let's roll, old son." He still studied Chris. "You're sure you should be doing this?"

Chris just looked at him. He stood, determined that Buck wouldn't see any sign of pain or weakness in him. "I'm ready," he said.

Dr. Stone escorted them down the back halls only the staff used, out through the operating rooms and to the staff level of the parking garage. Buck was driving a silver mini-van with tinted windows just this side of legal. "Nice wheels," Chris commented and Buck cussed and opened the back door.

"It belongs to Gloria Potter, and if I don't get it back in the same condition, Judge Travis is going to have my badge for lunch." He slid the back door open, ignoring Chris's pointed glare. "Don't argue, Larabee, just get in."

Chris climbed in, feeling distinctly geriatric, but also noticing that the glass was tinted a darker shade in the back. He buckled up, watching Wilmington put on a knit cap and sun glasses. It wasn't much of a disguise, but it was relatively effective. "Let's go home," Chris said.

They drove out of the parking garage into a day of hazy sun. Chris noticed Buck's eyes going to the rearview mirror every few minutes, and he found himself doing the same thing with the mirror on his side of the van. But there was nothing suspicious; no sign that their exit from the garage had been noticed or that they were being followed. By the time they hit the highway, Buck had relaxed noticeably, even humming along with the country music station on the radio. Exhaustion came too easily. Chris closed his eyes and let himself doze.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

It was beautiful countryside, Sam thought as Vin pulled through the gate on Chris's ranch. The fields ran to a distant vista of the mountains, the pastures looked productive and like good grazing for the several head of cattle Sam saw. The property was fenced, but it didn't look particularly secure. He turned to Tanner. "I don't see any security," he commented.

"There's cameras," Vin said, "and alarms. You jist won't see 'em until you're inside lookin' at Chris's computer set-up. JD did a real good job. Chris installed a generator to keep things running if the power goes out. The house has 360 degree views on all sides, not too much landscaping to screen things. The windows are all set to give line of sight from the inside, but they've got these reflective films that screen anybody tryin' to see in."

Sam was impressed, but still wary. "Nobody can keep watch a hundred percent of the time."

"That's why there's seven of us on this detail." He drove the dark Suburban Travis had caged from the FBI fleet up a long, winding driveway. The ranch house was sprawling yet graceful, with a wide front porch that seemed to welcome visitors. There was a large parking area at the front, and the drive swung around to the garage at the rear of the house. Invisible and secure. Sam was impressed. "Nice digs."

"Yeah, Chris worked real hard to make it this way." He parked and turned off the ignition. "C'mon, I'll give ya the grand tour." His cell phone beeped and he answered. "Thanks, Bucklin. I'll tell him." He flipped it closed. "Buck and Chris jist left the hospital. I reckon the others'll be here soon." He unlocked the dead bolt and once Sam was inside, he keyed in the security code, rearming the system.

Sam stood in a long, wide hallway. Vin gestured to the right. "Living room. Chris don't use that much, except at Christmas. Down the hall is the den. That's where most of the livin' is done. Dining room is to the right – think that only gets used at Thanksgiving, or for when we're having a meeting that needs a big table. Kitchen is at the back of the house." He started walking, pointing. "Half bath. Kitchen. Guest rooms off that. The master bedroom is back of the den, along with another room that's supposed to be a home office, but Chris uses it as an extra bedroom." They reached the great room with its wide windows leading to the deck at the back of the house, stone fireplace and comfortable, well-worn furniture.

"Nice," Sam said, thinking of his Boston home with its cramped rooms, low ceilings and yard so tiny that he and Lauren had to take the boys to the park if they wanted to do anything more strenuous than play catch.

"Chris showed me pictures of what the place was like before they built, nothing but a rundown ranch house and some mighty sad outbuildings. All the value was in the land." Vin sighed. He seemed about to say something else when he stopped. "Somebody's in the drive. Probably Ezra."

Sam looked at him quizzically. Vin just gave him a one-sided smile. "I heard tires, but not much engine. Ezra's got this Jag that don't make more noise than a big cat purring. Better let him in b'fore the alarms go off." Vin ambled down the hall and Sam went into the great room to wait for the others.

They were all there within half an hour, except for Buck and Chris. The hum of tension in the air was palpable. Sam thought if he were a stranger watching them, they would seem like friends gathered in front of the TV for a game. Except the TV this day displayed the CCTV of the drive to the house. JD had hooked up several other laptops which picked up feeds from other cameras placed around the property. Sam hadn't seen any sign of them coming in, and was impressed with Dunne's knowledge and technical savvy. Larabee was right, he only looked like a surprised kid, complete with freckles and floppy black bangs.

At last, a cloud of dust appeared on the TV monitor, resolving itself into a silver minivan. It pulled up in back by the garage and a disgruntled Buck Wilmington got out of the driver's seat. If it weren't for the seriousness of the situation, it would have been comical. He slid the side door open and Chris climbed out slowly.

"He's home," Vin said softly.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

He was home. Chris stood for a moment just breathing in the air. It was the first untainted air he'd breathed in days; no hospital ozone, no exhaust fumes or smog. Pure, clean country air scented with hay and sunshine. He drew in a breath, then nearly gasped at the sharp pain that radiated from his broken ribs. Strapped or not, they still hurt.

Buck came over to him. "Welcome home."

"Thanks."

"You need a shoulder to lean on?"

Chris shook his head. "There's nothing wrong with my legs."

"Hell, I can see that. Just take it slow."

Chris didn't think he'd be able to do more than that, although it was a temptation to try just to irritate Buck. But the pain wasn't worth it. So he walked slowly, with an effort to keep upright. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his face by the time they made it to the mudroom door. "Is everybody here?" he asked, before they went inside.

"You think we wouldn't be?"

It was a question that didn't need an answer. Chris stood at the entrance to the room and, for a moment, was speechless. His team, his friends, all watching him. And Sam Colton, standing in the shadows, letting them have their private welcome home.

Vin held out his hand. "'Bout time you got here, Larabee."

Chris grinned. "Buck was taking good care of Gloria Potter's minivan."

JD's laugh sounded suspiciously like a giggle. "Nice wheels, Grandma." "Watch it, kid," Buck said. "Or the next time you want to borrow my truck for a big date, you and Casey might end up taking a bus." It was a hollow threat, but for a moment, JD blanched.

Then they were all there, even Ezra, holding out a hand to welcome him home. Chris sank down on the couch, accepting Nathan's attention to his vital signs and taking the meds handed to him without griping. It was good to be home, better to be with his team. He looked around at the video equipment. "You mind telling me what all this is?"

"Protection." Sam spoke for the first time. "Since you seem to need it."

Chris turned to JD. "Did you do this?"

JD nodded, half afraid that Chris would light into him. Instead, Chris nodded. "Good work. Thanks, JD. Walk me through it?"

"Sure!" Chris listened while Dunne explained how he had set up the surveillance, where the cameras and the mikes were, how he had selected the sites. "It was Vin," he said. "He showed me the most likely places a sniper would be looking to make a shot."

Chris turned dark green eyes to Tanner. "Buck told me about last night. You all right?"

"Yeah, bruised ribs. That's the worst of it, thanks to Sam."

"We need to talk," Chris said, and Sam nodded.

"When you're up to it."

"I'm up to it now."

"No," Nathan interrupted. "You're up to a good rest and that's it. There's no sign of any trouble, so you're gonna take it easy while you can. Got it?"

Chris put up the pretense of an argument, but in truth, he was glad for the chance to get horizontal for a while. He followed Nathan to the master bedroom and lay down. The pills he'd taken must have included a painkiller because his eyes were suddenly too heavy to hold open. In five minutes, he was asleep.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

When he woke, the last of the sunset light was filtering through the window blinds and Vin was sitting in the shadows that filled the corners of the bedroom. His rifle was slanted across his knees and his clean, sharp profile was edged with gold. Chris didn't move but, somehow, Vin knew when he was awake.

"Hey."

Chris pushed himself upright slowly. His mouth felt like he'd been sucking on library paste. Somebody, probably Nathan, had the foresight to put a carafe of water at the bedside and Chris poured a glass and drank deeply. Hydrated and feeling almost human, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. "What time is it?"

"'Bout seven o'clock. Ya hungry? There's soup that Josiah made. Should go down easy enough."

Chris gestured to the rifle. "You expecting trouble?"

"Nah, I jist promised Doc Stone I'd protect her investment."

"You're a lousy liar."

Vin's mouth twisted into a half-smile, but he didn't say a word. "The others still here?"

"Buck and JD are takin' Miz Potter's van back with nary a scratch on it."

"I guess Buck's badge is safe, then." And when Vin gave him a quizzical glance, Chris grinned. "Gloria threatened to make Buck eat it for lunch."

That made Vin laugh. "I'd a' paid to see that. You feel like joinin' the rest of us watching the hottest show in town?"

Chris snorted. "What's that, the sun setting on the back forty?" He managed to make a slow and steady progress to the den with Vin a few paces behind him, just in case his strength faltered.

Ezra and Josiah were playing poker for pennies – not Standish's usual stake, but he still thought like a card shark and Josiah was looking frustrated. Sam had his laptop open and, judging from his frown, he was dealing with work. As soon as he saw Chris, he shut it down and set it aside.

Chris raised a brow. "Don't stop on my account."

"I've got to leave some work for you," Sam smiled wearily, but his eyes were worried. "I'm about ready for a break." He stood and stretched, bones cracking in his spine, and caught the sympathetic look on Chris' face. They were two men who were in the prime of their lives, but those lives had taken more than a fair toll on them, body and soul.

"Join me for some grub?" Chris invited and Sam nodded. "Vin?"

"I ate. I'm gonna take a stroll outside, go down to the corral and see to the horses." He went out to the deck and from there, Chris watched for a moment as he went across the field to the barn. The western skies were getting darker and lightning was flickering beneath the bellies of the clouds. The weather was still miles away, but it was ever-present and ominous; Chris could feel it in his bones.

He joined Sam at the table in the kitchen. There were a bowls of soup and a plate of hot rolls. That simple meal tasted a lot better than the hospital fare and he ate with more of an appetite than he'd had since he'd been shot, and it wasn't just because he was healing. Even Nathan stopped hovering. Sam sat in silence, eating his own soup and occasionally glancing out of the big sliders to the deck. Chris appreciated Colton's silence. It had the same quality as Vin's – patient, willing to let the world wash around him. He wondered if that stillness was something they taught in sniper training, or if it had come first, either inborn or acquired.

Finally, Chris spoke, and it wasn't about the danger lurking outside, or the job. "Since you're the man sitting in my chair, I'd kind 'a like to know more about you."

Sam looked at him. "Maybe I should ask you the same thing."

"My life's an open book, no thanks to the media. I'm sure the team has filled you in on everything else."

Sam ran a hand through his hair. Studied Chris as if gauging the importance of his curiosity, and then decided it was worth the telling.

"You can guess from that twang that creeps into my voice every now and then, that I was born in Louisiana. My dad was an engineer. We moved around a lot, finally settling in Lawrence, Kansas. I went to school on the ROTC dime back in the days when it wasn't the politically correct thing to do. There was a protest at the office and it got me so riled up that I joined the Marines and was sent to 'Nam for about three months before we withdrew. After, I stayed in the reserves, finished college and decided I liked being a Marine better than working behind a desk. One of my buddies introduced me to Lauren. After the Gulf War, I was done. A wall full of medals at Quantico couldn't compare to being a husband and a father. I didn't want my boys to be military nomads with a father whose stock in trade was killing, and Lauren wanted the house with the white picket fence. When the ATF came knocking, I said 'why not?' and that led me here."

"That's a pretty fast rise through the ranks," Chris commented. "It takes most men years to get to SAC status."

"How long did it take you?" Sam asked, eyes glinting. "Seems like we came on board about the same time."

"Hell, maybe we're just gifted."

"Or unlucky."

Chris grinned and raised his glass of water. "Here's to luck, then."

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin, standing on the deck, saw that companionable toast. Something settled inside him. He'd wondered why Sam had slipped so easily into Larabee's chair, with only Buck and Ezra resistant at first, and then accepting as Sam's presence didn't create friction. Sam and Chris weren't that different, Vin realized. They both had their priorities in the same place – the right one to make decisions that were in line with how the team worked together. How much Orrin Travis had to do with finding Sam Colton, Vin didn't know, but he'd be willing to raise a drink to that man for doing his job.

He listened to the evening sounds – the chirping of the birds, the quiet hum of nighttime insects, the frogs on the banks of the creek calling to each other. He was too wary to let down his guard completely, but his senses told him that they were safe for the moment. No sniper wanted to attempt a shot in cold, wind, and rain. That didn't mean Vin was willing to take that risk, however. He went inside to get his jacket and his rifle. Buck was waiting inside the sliders.

"All quiet?" he asked.

"Fer now."

"Why don't you get some sleep? I'll take first watch. Wake you up around midnight."

Vin considered for a moment. His ribs were just sore enough that they awareness of pain wore him down. Sleep and some ibuprofen would set him right for the long night ahead. He didn't want to hand this over to Buck, but what he wanted wasn't the issue. Chris' safety had to be put ahead of everything else. He'd be better, sharper, with a few hours of rest. Going against a strong, skilled opponent when you were down to fumes was just plain stupid. He conceded. "Thanks, Bucklin. If ya hear anything, or of something jist don't seem right, wake me up."

"You got it."

"Close the blinds in the kitchen and den. It's getting dark enough for the inside lights to give anybody outside a clear view."

"It's done. Go on, Junior. The world ain't gonna come to an end just because you close your eyes."

Vin thought that it might. But he had to trust to Buck's judgment and Sam's experience. He stopped in the kitchen briefly to tell Sam and Chris that he was going down for a while. "Watch your back," he cautioned them.

"Got it." Buck stood in the doorway, his own rifle in his hands. He didn't often use the weapon, but he kept in practice with it and if not as good as Vin, he ranked right up there. Vin nodded and headed into the darkened hall. Ten minutes and two ibuprofen capsules later, he was asleep.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

The corridors of Mercy Hospital were deserted. Night staff was reduced to the bare minimum needed for patient care and, at the moment, the station was vacant as the nurses made their rounds. The assassin had waited in the stairwell, watching through a tiny window that afforded a narrow view of the nurses' station and the door to the room where Larabee was sleeping. It was guarded by a single security officer and he looked old and out of shape. Fools! The assassin waited for the perfect moment. He had been trained to be patient, to wait, to watch before he struck. Yet, despite that training, he felt his heartbeat shaking his chest.

The door was locked to guard against patients wandering the halls, not to bar the staff from navigating quickly around the large facility. Aware of that, the assassin wore green scrubs and a surgical cap. A mask hung loosely around his neck and an official-looking badge was clipped to the pocket of his scrubs. He was just an anonymous intern in a hospital as large as Mercy. He slipped inside, then deliberately leaned against the bar that set off the alarm. A painfully high-pitched beeping sounded and the guard whirled to the door, moving quickly for an old guy.

The assassin held out his hand as if saying, "What did I do?"

The guard looked him over, grinned and shook his head. He pulled a ring of keys from his belt and waved off a nurse who had come into the corridor on hearing the alarm. He came over to the door. "Sorry, doc, these damn alarms. I guess nobody told you not to lean on that bar."

"No."

"Never mind. It happens all the time." He bent his head searching for the right key. As soon as the alarm stopped. The assassin pulled a silenced Glock from the waist of his scrubs and brought it down hard on the guard's skull. The man crumpled, and the assassin dragged his body into a small alcove. Moving quickly, he went to Larabee's room, opened the door, aimed the Glock, and then drew in a sharp, angry breath. The bed was empty. The room was empty.

Larabee was gone.

Cursing, the assassin shoved the pistol back into the waist of his scrubs, pulled his mask up and made for the elevators. He would be lucky to get out before the unconscious guard was discovered. He should have killed him while he was at it, but the guard wouldn't be able to identify him, and he had no intention of returning to the hospital. Larabee had gone to ground, but he couldn't hide. He would be found, and the assassin would put a bullet in his brain to pay for his crimes.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Back in his hotel room, the assassin called a contact in the public records office. For the price of a sob story, the woman he spoke with was able to access closed records. Within a few minutes, the assassin had the location of the Larabee ranch. It was too late to drive the unfamiliar roads in darkness, and a night's sleep would give him an advantage tomorrow. He studied the terrain using a satellite database and formulated his plan of attack. By this time tomorrow, Chris Larabee, and those who protected him, would be dead.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Buck slowly upped the wattage of the rheostat in the room where Vin slept. He had no intention of waking the sharpshooter by risking his own neck. He swore Tanner could feel the weight of the air change with the weather or the slightest variation in light or dark on his closed eyelids. He'd seen it often enough to know that approaching him was like setting a match to the tail of a dozing wildcat.

True to form, Vin's head moved on the pillow and his eyes opened. They focused quickly on Buck. "Something wrong?"

"No, just time to make a change of watch. I figured you'd want a few minutes for coffee and comfort before I turn in."

Vin sat up, pushing the tangle of brown hair from his forehead. "Thanks, Bucklin. I'll take ya up on that." He sat up. Now that he didn't have to leap into action, he let his drowsiness wear away slowly.

"All's quiet?"

"Not even a mouse is stirring. Chris is asleep. Ezra is tending the surveillance cameras while JD catches a few winks. Josiah is in the bonus room, doing some reports for work. Nate is keeping an eye on Chris. All present and accounted for."

Buck left him, and after he had cleaned up and washed the sleep from his eyes, he poured coffee and joined the others in the den. JD, like Vin, was drinking coffee. Sam was noticeably absent. "Where's Colton?" Vin asked.

"Taking a call," JD answered, his eyes scanning his computer equipment, then satisfied, he settled on the couch. "Vin, you think anything is gonna happen tonight?"

"Don't know, JD. If this guy weren't a pro, I'd say maybe. No trained sniper is gonna go stumbling around in the dark in unfamiliar places. That don't mean he ain't close by, though. He might be waitin' on the dawn to make a move. So we'd best be prepared for that."

JD's eyes had brightened a bit, then sobered. "Yeah." His gaze went once again to a camera with an infrared lens. It was dark, with only a faint shimmer from the heat the ground had retained from the sunlight.

Vin stood and picked up his rifle. "Guess I'll take my watch."

Chapter 10

Sam disconnected his cell phone and stood for a moment. He couldn't say that the news was entirely unexpected, but he couldn't help hoping that this case would be concluded simply. Things never were simple in this life, however. He sighed and went into the den.

Chris was there, awake, as if he had somehow felt the disturbance that had eddied through Sam. He wasn't surprised by that, either. He could see Vin standing on the deck, barely a shadow in the darkness. He tapped softly on the glass and Tanner turned quickly, his weapon in his hands, ready to be brought up to fire and then lowered as he acknowledged Sam's gesture to come inside. He did, but stayed near the doors, still on guard.

Sam coughed, cleared his throat. "I got a call from the DPD. They found the body of a man two blocks from Vin's apartment. From the way he was dressed, and the evidence they found on his body, it's the man who attacked Vin and me. He'd been shot, close range, with his own gun. An hour later, somebody knocked out a guard at Mercy Hospital – on the floor where Chris had been. The guard said the guy was dressed like an intern, so he didn't think twice about letting him on the floor. Things are escalating fast."

"He didn't kill the guard," JD said.

"No. It was a greater risk to kill him than to let him live."

"Why kill the other guy?" JD seemed puzzled. "It doesn't make a lot of sense."

"Identification?" Vin hazarded. "They might 'a been working together on gettin' onto the construction site, the cleanin' crew. If the shooter wanted anonymity, he'd have hired a front man. Bastard never intended to share the wealth. Sam's right. Time's getting short real fast."

"We know he's coming. Hell, he could be just beyond our camera range or beyond that next ridge. He's not stupid. He won't come in here guns blazing. And he'll come alone." Sam expression was grim.

"One man? We can take one man!" JD looked around at the others for confirmation, and got none.

Sam shook his head. "Do you know what they call a sniper? A 'force multiplier.' One man who can take down a platoon, given enough skill, and the right circumstances."

Chris finally spoke. "We've got two 'force multipliers,' Sam – you and Vin."

Sam gave him a skeptical, one-sided smile. "We've got one," he said. "Out on the range, and in theory, sure, I could match Tanner shot for shot maybe ninety-five times out of a hundred, if I got real lucky, and my eyesight held up. But in the real world… I've been a desk jockey for too long."

"You could be my spotter." Vin pushed himself away from the wall where he had been leaning. "This guy ain't gonna come to us. We cain't hole up here indefinitely. He'll pick us off one by one until he gets Chris."

"I can't say I like those odds." Ezra looked at Sam. "Perhaps we need to whittle them down to something more to our advantage." He turned to Chris. "Mr. Larabee, I believe it is your hand to either fold or call." He gestured to the deck of cards on the table.

"I call." Chris rose too quickly, gasped, and then held off Nathan. "Don't!" he growled at Jackson. "Let's play the game out. I'm sick of this bastard holding me hostage to fear and doubt. I want you all out of here except Sam and Vin."

Buck suddenly realized the import of Ezra's words and Chris' reaction. "Are you crazy? Nathan, maybe you'd better see if he's got a fever." He crossed over to Chris and stood glaring at him. "In what universe does that make sense? We ain't leavin' you."

"I'm not asking a favor. I'm giving an order."

"Yeah, well, sometimes your goddamn orders don't make a lick of sense, either. That's why ya made me SiC, remember?"

"Remember I'm not your supervising agent, Buck."

Buck turned to Sam, who had remained suspiciously silent during that exchange. "You can't be seriously considering this?"

"I'm not 'considering' this." He looked at Chris, at Vin. "I say we do it. I don't want this any more than you do, Buck. But this has to stop – now. That fucking monster has to be found before anybody else dies." If we stay, we run the risk of losing more lives."

He studied the others. "What happens out here is only part of the case. If Vin is right, and I'd stake my life on it, the shooter's a gun for hire. That means the real demon is still on the loose. We need to build a case. We have to be a hundred percent sure that the money man can't finance more ops against Chris or any other so-called 'enemy' of his. I'm not going out with innocent lives lost on my record."

Buck looked like he was about to tell Sam where he could stick his record, when Josiah spoke from the shadows in an attempt to defuse the situation before Wilmington's temper got the better of him. "One call to Travis would blanket the area with Federal agents." He said it with some diffidence, as if he knew what the response would be. 

The answer came from Vin."At the first sign of that, he'd leak into the landscape," he said. "And Chris would still be primary target. This guy might come alone, but we can't guarantee he's working alone. The bastard who hired him has got deeper pockets than Uncle Sam and no compunction about usin' them to take us all down."

"What if the only option is to kill him? Where does that leave us with the case?"

"We can track him electronically," JD said. "Alive would be better, but once we get an ID, I can follow the paper trail sure as Vin can follow his tracks on the land."

Buck threw up his hands. "Fine, just take notice that I'm not one hundred percent behind this. I won't make accusations if it goes wrong. That ain't my game." He stood in front of Sam. "But you'll know. And if Chris or Vin wind up dead, that knowledge will follow you to your grave."

Sam was aware that his own name was absent from Wilmington's list of priorities. He straightened, not as tall as Buck, but as much a presence in his own way. He didn't blink under the unwavering scrutiny, and whatever Wilmington saw in his eyes seemed to satisfy him. He stepped back, looked to Chris. "How do you want this to play out?"

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

In the end, Chris agreed to a compromise, one that even Sam admitted was necessary. Nathan would stay at the ranch. It only made sense that somebody with medical training be there in the worst case scenario. That decision had slightly appeased Buck, but a cloud of disapproval had hung over their departure from the ranch. Caught between guilt and relief, Sam felt queasy and unsettled.

He sat at the kitchen table and looked out at the darkness beyond the French doors. Vin was on the deck. Standing there, in the darkness, wearing night camouflage, he was nearly invisible to Sam. The faint strobe of lightning only made him less visible. Nothing but a shadow.

"Any action out there?" 

Chris' voice startled Sam and he turned quickly. "You shouldn't be here," he said. "It's not safe."

Chris smiled slightly. "Tell that to Vin." Still, he stuck to the darkness away from the sliders. He was nearly as invisible as Tanner, dressed in black jeans and a dark long-sleeved turtleneck. He hooked a chair over to the breakfast bar, wincing as he pulled himself up to the seat. "Damn," he sighed.

Sam raised a brow. "If Jackson knew you were out here, he'd haul your ass back to bed."

"Well, he's resting. And I'm fine."

"Right."

"I've been hurt worse," Chris said. "Nearly died in Somalia, back in the day."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Tell me you weren't in Mogadishu." "Hell, I could tell you a lot of places I've been, but then I'd have to kill you." Chris rubbed a finger lightly over the granite countertop. "But, yeah, me and Buck. He saved my life – dragged me into a chopper at the last minute. We were the lucky ones. I had bits of metal from a grenade cutting me up inside. But I came back from it full strength and returned to active duty for another two years before I retired." He laughed softly. "My knees gave out. After ten years of being in more situations of dire peril than most men see in a lifetime, and I had to leave the teams because the damn cartilage in my left knee couldn't be repaired any more. Go figure."

"Time makes fools of us all," Sam replied, sounding unexpectedly bitter. He knew too well what Chris had gone through. It was an echo of his own time as a Force Recon scout-sniper. He'd been discharged with the highest honors, more medals than he could pin on his chest and more kills than he wanted to admit on his record. He looked out at Vin. "Nobody that young should have to go through what we've done."

Chris couldn't reply without betraying Vin's confidences – poverty, neglect, abuse. "The Army saved him and, in turn, he's saved us all more times than I can count."

Even that oblique response had Sam raising an eyebrow. He wouldn't ask more, though he could read quite a lot into Larabee's words. "You still shouldn't be in here," he reminded Chris.

"I know. I just wanted to check in."

"Get some rest. My mother always says you heal best when you sleep."

"Funny. So does mine." Chris gave the silent man on the deck one last look. "Two moms must make a right," he grimaced at his own humor.

Sam laughed. It would be a long while before he would laugh again.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Buck wasn't about to let Chris and Vin commit suicide just because some bastard had to be lured into the open. He was part of the damn team, too, and while he might be up against the ropes, he wasn't going to lose this fight. He knew Chris' neighbors well enough to ask a small favor, and as a result, he, JD, Josiah, and Ezra were camped out in a non-descript trailer on the next property. JD had set up more surveillance equipment and they were all equipped with night vision binoculars. He was backed up by an order from Orrin Travis, so if Chris went ballistic on him, he could shove that paper in his face and prove that he had done the right thing – insubordinate or not.

The trailer was cramped and hot. Used primarily as emergency shelter during the winter, it wasn't exactly fitted with the latest amenities, just a small generator to run lights and a refrigerator that was currently unplugged so JD could run his electronics without burning up the lines. Buck wasn't thrilled with the set-up, but it was better than being blind.

The lightning was closer, now, the thunder a low rumble over the mountains. Buck frowned at the stained ceiling overhead. It looked like it would leak, which couldn't be a good thing with several thousand dollars worth of electrical gadgetry set up beneath it. JD didn't seem too bothered by it.

"What's it look like out there?" Buck asked.

"Like not much," JD shoved away from his console. "A few small blips from local critters, nothing big enough to be a man."

"Could a man hide from those thermal imaging cameras?"

"Not without a Romulan cloaking device. 'Sides, Vin said it wasn't likely the guy would be out hunting on a night like this."

"Yeah, likely is the operative word. I don't like it," Buck said. "We don't know who this guy is. We don't know his MO."

"That's not quite true," Ezra said. He had been on his cell phone, off in a corner ."Thanks to our reticent sharpshooter, the CIA came through with an interesting possible match. JD, can you set up a video link with Sam and Chris?"

"Sure. Give them a call and tell them to get on Chris' computer."

A few minutes later, they had the link up. JD tapped away on the keyboard and an image appeared of a hard-faced man with a shaved head and black, malevolent eyes.

Chris studied the picture and turned to Sam. "Get Vin in here."

Vin's face appeared on the screen. "Y' got somethin' for me?"

Josiah held up the picture to the camera lens. "Recognize him?"

Vin's eyes narrowed, but his expression was unreadable. "Send me the pic. I know somebody who can get us the info."

"I can do that," JD said. "Who do you want—?"

"Sorry, JD, I gotta do this."

"Oh…" Dunne suddenly remembered that Vin's security clearance was about six levels into the stratosphere. He fed the picture into the scanner, made the file, and sent it to Vin. "Did you get it?" he asked.

"Thanks, JD. I owe ya one."

They all watched through the webcam as Vin tapped away at his keyboard, and then they all heard his muttered. "Aw, fuck," as he read something on the screen. His expression was grave. "His name's Malik Zaitsev. He's a Chechen mercenary on the CIA's terrorist watch-list. Zaitsev isn't your garden variety bomb-toting terrorist. He's terror for hire. He's a sniper. His specialty is the take-down of a single target."

"Junior, it sure sounds like you've run into this bastard before."

Vin didn't directly answer the question. "There's places where if ya want t' put a bullet in somebody's brain, ya find a Chechen. They don't give a shit who gets in the way of the objective. Ask Putin." Vin fell silent and it was a moment before he came back, his eyes focusing on the screen. He drew a breath. "But gettin' back to Zaitsev, the Company's had a man on him. Three weeks ago, the agent dropped off the radar, and there was no sign of Zaitsev, until five days ago, when an informant sighted him in the Cayman Islands. They're sending a copy of Zaitsev's file. I'll have it a minute."

JD looked puzzled. "But if Zaitsev was in the Cayman's five days ago, he couldn't have been the original hitman."

It was Buck who came up with a logical scenario. "He could have if he traveled in disguise with a phony Mexican passport, entered the US through that damn porous border. Left in the same way and returned to the Caymans for God knows what."

Josiah smiled. "God and the CIA. Ezra, tell them who else was in the Caymans, large as life and free as a bird?"

Watching the monitor, Ezra nodded. "I believe Mr. Larabee has arrived at the proper conclusion, if I read his expression correctly."

Chris laughed softly, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Ivanov."

"Give that man a cigar."

"Buck, where are you?" Chris asked, as if he had just noticed that the background on the webcam wasn't in the office.

"Damn, Chris. Ya found us out. We're in Tyler's old field trailer." There wasn't any use in lying. He half-expected an explosion of temper from Larabee; waited for it, nearly wincing.

"Thanks, Buck." Chris looked weary, but relieved. "Keep your guard up."

"You got it, Chris. JD's set up his equipment. We've got your back."

"I'm signing off," Chris said. "Ring the cell if something catches your eye." And then the cam went dark.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Across the fields, in Chris' dim family room, Sam, Chris, and Vin sat in the near darkness. Vin handed Sam the print-out of Zaitsev's file. He knew it by heart, because he'd seen it before, and had committed it to memory. It had been five years since he'd first heard of Malik Zaitsev.

"Vin?" Sam queried softly. "You want to tell us what you know about this man, the stuff that isn't in the file?"

Vin looked out the doors. Lightning flashed brightly now, the wind was rising and thunder was rolling down the mountains. There would be rain. That was good. Zaitsev was a fair-weather shooter. He sighed. "In Afghanistan… ya know we beat down the Talibs pretty good after 9/11, and maybe if we'd stayed on the job they wouldn't have sent out feelers for foreign Islamists and mercs to take on the multinational forces. But they did, and one of 'em, called the Ghost of the Khyber took down fifteen American and Brit Marines, then slipped away. He haunted those passes a good long time, until…"

"Until?" Chris asked. He knew the answer, and wondered if Sam did. He risked a glance at Colton. He was leaning forward, waiting for the rest of the tale. So, he didn't know, and maybe that had something to do with Travis.

"Until we found ourselves our own ghost."

"You?" Sam whispered. He glanced at Chris. If this was news to him, he wasn't showing it. Maybe Larabee was the only one who had heard this story from Tanner's own lips.

Without acknowledging that truth, Vin rose. "I never saw the bastard but through the sights of my rifle, and he looked pretty much like all the Talibs… beard, long hair, black turban, tattered clothes. I ain't gonna take credit for driving him out of the pass – the Berets and the Rangers had more to do with that than me. I jist made is safer for them to operate."

Sam looked at Chris. "How much of a coincidence is this?" he asked. "The same man going after both of you?"

Vin shook his head. "That's all it is – coincidence. He got about as good a look at me as I did of him. And saw pretty much the same thing, but for the black turban." He wasn't sure he wanted to say more about those duels in the mountains of Afghanistan. The physical and emotional toll it had taken on him.

A flash of lightning lit the room, followed by a long roll of thunder and the first hard crack of rain beating on the deck. "He didn't know me. Hell, not even the SF team who made sure I got up there knew who I was, or where'd I'd come from."

He rose and paced deeper into the shadows. "It was kind 'a like one a' Josiah's games of chess – only with guns. We fought through those damn mountains fer two months. Couple times we'd each come close to takin' the other down. Jist when I thought I was getting the upper hand, that I knew his moves and could counter 'em, he was gone."

"Where?"

Vin shrugged. "To where the money was, I reckon. He wasn't fighting for a cause, not for jihad against the infidels like the real mujahedeen. When the funds ran out, so did he."

"Is Zaitsev his real name?" Sam asked, and Vin gave him a grim smile.

"Maybe, maybe not. He's prob'ly got enough ego on him t' take Vassili Zaitsev's name. Difference is, he ain't no hero."

"Is this something I should know?" Chris asked Sam, baffled by this exchange.

"Vassili Zaitsev was a Soviet sniper in Stalingrad during World War Two. Legend is that he killed upwards of four hundred Axis soldiers and eleven Axis snipers during the battle. He was a hero. Lived to a ripe old age, which isn't exactly par for the course."

Chris leaned forward in his seat and fixed Vin with a searching look. "You do the same, you hear me?"

Vin laughed softly and stood, his rifle held easily in his hands. "I ain't plannin' on anything else. He brought the war here, now I reckon he'll learn what it is to fight on enemy ground."

There was a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder. Sam felt the electricity raising the hairs on his arm… At least he could claim that was what made the shiver run through him, and not the sight of Tanner, still and deadly in the darkness.

Darkness.

He heard Chris curse. "Larabee!" His voice was a hiss of alarm. "What happened to the generator?"

His answer was another curse. "Vin?"

"You all jist stay down. I'm goin' huntin'." He vanished. Sam couldn't describe it any other way. One moment he was there, the next he was silently gone.

"Damn it!" Sam cursed. He turned to Chris. "You got a rifle I can use?" he asked.

Chris pulled out a key ring. "Gun cabinet in my office. C'mon." He started a cautious skirting of the walls.

"What the hell are you doing, Larabee?" Sam asked. "You're in no shape—"

"Even a cripple has a right to self-defense," Chris growled.

Sam couldn't argue. He shook his head and followed Larabee through the dark halls.

They reached the office and Chris pulled a tiny shielded flashlight from his pocket. He unlocked the case.

Sam scanned the weapons. "Nice." He took out an FBI issue sniper rifle and hefted it lightly. "You shoot this?"

"Sometimes."

"You mind if I borrow it?"

"I trust you with it, given what Vin says about your record at Quantico." He passed the rifle over to Sam along with several magazines, and took out a Sig-Sauer handgun. "I'm trusting you two with keeping Zaitsev at a distance, but if he gets close, he's just as dead."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure you want him dead? He's a gun, Larabee, nothing more. The man behind all this will still be on the loose. He'll just get another gun."

Chris tossed two headsets and mikes to Sam. "Give one to Vin. Just because Zaitsev thinks we're bline, doesn't mean we have to be deaf as well." 

Chris clipped a battery pack on his belt and put on a headset. He shoved a clip into the Sig. "Go on, Sam. Stay in touch. I'll keep."

Sam nodded, and with the rifle in his hands faded into the shadows, much as Vin had done.

Chapter 11

Vin ran low and fast to the barn where the generator was housed. In the darkness he heard Peso and Pony moving restlessly in their stalls, but he didn't sense alarm or a foreign presence. The generator power light was dark. He pulled a small Maglite out of his jacket and holding in his teeth, explored the connections. The main wire was loose – not cut, not damaged, just loose. He cursed softly and went to the tool chest in the tack room. He tightened the connector. A bit of a jerry-rigged job, but when he flicked the power switch, the machine hummed to life. Maybe if life weren't so goddamn complicated, Chris would have had time to check up on details; then a pang of guilt hit him when he thought of Larabee in the hospital for the last two weeks. There was nobody to blame; not even himself.

He returned to the deck and took shelter in the overhang of the eaves. He was cold – cold to his heart and bones. A shiver worked its way down his spine. The damp chill the storm had left behind and the shift in the wind would make shooting difficult. For one man to go up against an uncertain number of adversaries, two of which were trained snipers and the others highly ranked Federal agents, would be nothing short of suicide.

Vin knew how many kills he had. He'd never told anybody, not even Larabee, but he supposed Chris knew. Travis knew, maybe even Buck. Aside from the brief adrenaline rush that came from having survived and saved the lives of men he fought with, he still regretted every death, as if each diminished the thin supply of his own humanity. It didn't make him less effective, if anything it made him more determined that every shot he took was the right one and for the right reason. He doubted Vasiliev had any scruples about his immortal soul.

A tiny snick of a pebble striking the ground at his feet made him turn alertly, not alarmed. The pebble had been launched from behind him, and nobody could have gotten around his perimeter. "Hey ya, Sam."

"The power came on," he said. "Took me and Chris by surprise."

"I checked the generator – loose connection. It wasn't Vasiliev, jist a plain old bad maintenance. I should've checked it out earlier."

"You had a few other things on your mind," Sam said gently. "Here, Chris would feel better if you had this." He held out the battery pack and headset. He wore his own under a dark watch cap.

Vin tugged off his own watch cap and settled the headset securely, tucking the loose strands of his hair that had escaped the rawhide tie and pulling on his cap once more. He looked up at the sky where the fitful clouds drifted over a sliver of moon. "The rain ain't done with us yet."

Tanner was right. Sam could taste the moisture in the air. If it had been light, he would have seen it approach over the mountains like a pale silk curtain sliding toward him. No lightning with this front, just the rain and a chill to sink to the bones. Tanner was looking pale and cold. "You want to go inside, get some coffee?"

"Want to. Probably shouldn't. Gives me the shakes."

"I'm not that old, Tanner," Sam growled. "I do get out to the range once or twice a week. I may not be as good you, but I can still outshoot any other old codger, including Larabee."

Vin laughed under his breath. "Doubt it. I been coaching him."

"You want to wager on that?"

"Not me, but Ezra'll take a piece of that action."

Vin shivered and Sam glared at him fit to match Larabee. "Get some heat into you, Tanner. Drink hot water for all I care, but you've already got the shakes."

Reluctantly, Vin admitted Colton was right. He never did much like the cold. And he wasn't kitted out for it. Maybe Chris had some thermals…

"Vin?"

Shit. His mind was wandering. Sure sign that he was cold. "I hear ya, Sam." He slipped silently through the sliders and into the dark kitchen, then twitched the curtains closed behind him. The flicker of the timer on the coffeemaker beckoned, fixed at midnight. Vin glanced at the pale glow of his watch and adjusted the timer. It was later than he had realized, nearly four a.m. The killing hour… Hands shaking slightly from a residual chill, Vin poured less than half a mug of coffee and gripped it, feeling the heat seep into the bones of his fingers and wrists. The first sip warmed him enough to quell the shudders. He tapped the microphone three times; his and Chris' standard hail.

Silence.

Vin drew his pistol and toed off his boots, perfectly soundless. He went into the family room. Chris was on the couch, still. Vin's heart just about leapt out of his chest before he saw the rise and fall of Larabee's ribs. Sleeping. Exhaustion had taken its toll.

Lord, he felt like he could flop down on floor and sleep just as soundly. He went into the master bedroom and found a dark thermal shirt in Larabee's dresser. He stripped off his damp T-shirt and replaced with the long-sleeved thermal. He felt instantly warmer. He borrowed one of Larabee's dark sweatshirts. He saw Chris' kevlar vest on the hook by the door and he slipped it on under his dark jacket, before he returned to the deck.

Sam was keeping a low profile, the night-vision goggle trained on the fields. He lifted a hand to Vin, signaling him down, and Vin dropped to a crouch. Sam passed over the goggles, made a familiar military motion with two fingers, indicating Vin should look where he pointed. He did, and saw a faint blur of pale green light near the barn. It could be a deer, a fox, or a man. "I'm on it."

"Tanner!" Sam tried to grab his arm, but Vin slipped through his fingers like water.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

He ran low and fast across the fields towards the barn. Suddenly, there was a flash and a low hiss of a silenced weapon. The bullet hit him above the breast, slammed him to the ground, but was foiled by the kevlar. Hazy, in pain, but aware that it was best to be perfectly still, he lay there, scarcely breathing. There was somebody standing near, and he didn't think it was Sam.

An unsilenced shot sounded, and Vin heard a grunt, the scrabble of boots on hard stone, then nothing. He felt consciousness draining away, fought to stay aware, but failed as the darkness came over him.

"Tanner! Vin!" Sam ran over to the dark, still shape that was Vin. He went down on his knees, terribly afraid that he might find a lifeless body. He laid his hand against Vin's throat, and couldn't believe that there was a strong, steady pulse against his palm, until he patted down Vin's chest and felt the stiff kevlar vest that had saved the sharpshooter's life. "Smart. Real smart." He tapped on his throat mike, and heard Larabee's response in his ear. "Chris, call in the reinforcements. I need help here. Vin's down."

"How bad?" The stress thrummed through Chris' voice.

"He's alive. Strong pulse. He was wearing a vest. It took the brunt of the shot. Hold on. He's coming to."

Vin stirred beneath his hand. "Goddamn," he groaned. "I feel like Peso kicked me square in the chest." He wheezed. "Jesus!" He tried to push himself upright, only to find that Sam was holding him down. "'M all right."

"Save that for Nathan to decide."

Vin's eyes widened in panic. "We're sittin' ducks here! An' ya jist gave him more targets."

Sam soothed him. "He's gone, Vin. He won't be back. It's nearly dawn and I got in a good shot. He's hurt. He'll crawl away and lick his wounds. He can't take us all down."

Vin heard the others coming. First Chris, who went down on his knees beside him, a hand on his shoulder as he bent near. "You okay?"

Vin nodded. "Yeah. Cain't say the same for yer vest. Sorry."

"That's what it's for," Chris said. Any questions he had were interrupted by the sounds of tires on gravel as Buck's Bronco tore down the driveway and came to a stop. Boots hit the ground, and then they were all there, much to Vin's disgust.

Nathan ran his hands down Vin's torso, snapping the vest open. "Call 911."

Vin struggled. "No! Listen, Nate. I'm good. Jist had the wind knocked out of me— Ow!" He shoved Jackson's hands away. "I said I was okay."

"Didn't sound like okay to me. Ya might have some cracked ribs."

"Hell, I've had cracked ribs b'fore. This ain't like that. I'm jist bruised up is all." He sat up, grimacing. "Wrap 'em and I'll be good to go. Sam—" He held out his hand and let Colton raise him upright. By the time they reached the deck, he was more or less upright and walking on his own power, even though Nathan was right at his back glaring at him.

Inside, he sank down on the couch. Nathan got out his medical bag and took his blood pressure, looked in his eyes, listened to his heart and lungs. "Well, everything looks good. I'll get ya some ibuprofen and water. You're gonna feel those bruises for a few days."

Vin nodded. "I reckon I know that." He looked at Chris, who was pale and visibly in pain. "I think Larabee needs some attention."

Nathan cursed, half at Vin and half at his own neglect. "I knew this was gonna happen as soon as I turned my back. You ain't a Navy SEAL any more, Chris. Your brain thinks it is, but your body is tellin' you otherwise."

"Yeah? Well, I just told it to shut up and get the job done."

Chris' voice was breathless, but his blood pressure was good, and he seemed to be no worse for the night's exertions. Nathan wasn't going to take any chances. "Git yourself to bed and stay there. I'll get your meds."

Chris shrugged. "I'm fine. Sam, did I hear you say you got in a shot?"

"He must have," Buck said, coming back in from the deck. "There's blood on the ground. Not a lot, but enough to show he's got to be hurting."

"What the hell are you doing in here, then?" Chris' irritation was edged with pain, frustration, and exhaustion.

"Easy, Chris. Josiah and Ezra are out there looking, but honestly, they aren't gonna find him. I'd say he stashed a vehicle somewhere off the road and is gone."

"Buck's right," Vin said. "'Tween the rain and the dark, he's gone. We had him on our ground and he knows it. He ain't makin' that mistake again. Until Zaitsev was sent into the mountains, his work was done more in urban settings. That's where he's most effective. He took his chance, but now he'll make us come to him."

"How?"

"Don't know, but I'd have Travis put a guard on Mary. She's the most visible link to us and the ATF. An' there's enough pics on the internet of you and her at those charity balls she drags ya to."

"Charity balls?" Sam cocked a brow at Chris.

"Orrin likes to have somebody looking out for her. She's had more than a few threats on her life."

"Nice work if you can get it."

Chris rolled his eyes. "She's a friend." He levered himself upright. "I'm going to bed."

"Damn right about that," Nathan spoke from the kitchen entrance with a handful of prescription bottles. "Vin, you, too. You're gonna be in a world of pain if you don't rest up with some ice on you."

"I hear ya, Nate." Vin tried to stand and fell back. "Shit."

Sam held out his hand. "C'mon, I've got you." He pulled Vin upright and steadied him. "We all need some rest." His cell phone rang and he looked at the number. "Josiah."

The rest of the conversation was monosyllabic until the end. "Go home. We're fine. I'll see you at the office in a few hours."

He closed the phone. "They followed the blood train to the road. Buck was right. They found tire tracks, fresh ones. He's gone to lick his wounds, but he'll be back. This time, we'll be ready."

He sounded confident, but he could see the question in all of their eyes. How? It was a question he couldn't answer. But there was one, and he'd figure it out once he cleared the haze of exhaustion from his mind.

He helped Vin down the hall to the guest room. "You need any help?"

"Nah. I got my ice pack. Jist need to have a lie down." He opened the door and paused. "That was good shootin', Sam – real good."

"Thanks." He wouldn't brush off a compliment from a fellow shooter. "We'll look at this with fresh eyes in a few hours."

He returned to the den. Buck and JD were putting on coats and heading out into the misty grey dawn. "See you in a few hours. I'll drive in with Vin if he's up to it." After they had gone, he lay down on the couch. For a few moments, he tried to organize his thoughts, but they slipped through his consciousness like water through a sieve, and he fell asleep.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

The sniper pressed a towel against his side. Blood soaked it, seeped through his fingers, but it seemed a slower flow that it had at first. He had been afraid he would bleed out in the car. Here he was, wounded and weakened, but still alive. Once the bleeding stopped, he would finish the job, catch a flight to Mexico, and from there, Argentina.

He took out his cell phone and dialed. When he got voice mail, he left a message. "The job is done. Don't expect delivery confirmation until the day after tomorrow. The offices will be closed. Your payment is waiting to be processed."

It wasn't the pure truth, but it was close enough. He would not admit to failure, not when he was so close to success that he could taste it. He had his own reasons now to see Chris Larabee dead.

Vasiliev parked in front of a corner pharmacy, zipped up his dark jacket to hide his bloody shirt. Inside, he gathered up what he needed: gauze, tape, antiseptic, extra strength pain reliever, and an elastic pressure bandage. His purchases made, he pulled away from the curb and into a men's clothing store where he took several items off a rack and went into the dressing room. Inside, he stripped to the waist and studied the wound – in and out. Good. He braced himself for the sting of the antiseptic, cleaned the injury, taped it, and wrapped it with the pressure bandage. He tugged a dark sweater over his head, leaving the tags visible.

"I wish to purchase this," he told the clerk with a sheepish smile. I spilled coffee down my shirt, and I do not think I should show up for a job interview with a stain on my clothing."

The clerk didn't even blink. He rang up the purchase and offered to cut off the tags. "Good luck," he said as he finished.

"Thank you." Vasiliev inclined his head and left the store, relieved that Americans were so trusting and willing to help a stranger in need. Perhaps that was a good sign. He threw the pharmacy bag and his bloody shirt into a dumpster in the alley behind the store.

Once back in his car, he drove to the Federal building and parked in a nearby lot. He took out his phone and dialed the general switchboard and asked to be directed to the ATF office. "I have information on the Larabee shooting," he said when questioned. The receptionist was only too glad to connect him.

"ATF. How can I help you?" The voice was slightly accented.

"The question is, how can I help you? I have information on the Larabee shooting."

A short, in-drawn breath. "What sort of information?"

"Tell Agent Larabee that he will not live to see sunset." He disconnected, removed the SIM card from the phone, and tossed the unit into the trash can next to his parking space.

Chapter 12

Denver shimmered in the early morning light. The skyline looked like the turrets of a great castle cloaked in a gold and grey haze. It wasn't a castle, and Vin knew it. It was more like a vast and dangerous canyon with dangers he couldn't see in that mirage-like view.

He stood on the rooftop of the Federal building, his rifle in his hands. He slid the arms of his Crossfire sniper sunglasses over his ears. The glare was instantly reduced by the lenses, dispelling the illusion of mists and castles and returning the view to the more familiar skyline around the Federal building. More familiar, but also more sinister. There was a killer on the loose.

Vin raised his binoculars and scanned the horizon. He was so intent on his surveillance that he didn't hear the door to the rooftop open, but he heard it close. His binoculars thumped to his chest and his rifle came to bear in one quick, fluid motion.

"Easy, Vin." Sam gently moved the rifle barrel aside. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Vin swallowed his chagrin and embarrassment. "Sorry. I guess I was a mite distracted."

"By…?"

"Nothin' but my own stupid thoughts." His shoulders slumped. "I hate this, Sam. I ain't gonna lie to you. I'm tired. Hell, I'm real tired, and I don't often say that."

"How's the ribs?"

Vin shrugged. "Sore as hell, but that's jist part of the job. I been hurt worse and done what had to be done."

Sam understood. He'd been there himself more than once. But he'd never looked as young as Tanner did just then, and it was a jolt. "Go back downstairs, Vin. Take an ibuprofen and take it easy for an hour or so until it kicks in. I'll be up here."

"Thanks. I reckon I could use that time." He took his earpiece and wire off and handed it to Sam. "Call me if ya need me."

When Colton raised a dark brow, Vin saluted. "Sir."

Chris' office was dim and cool. Vin lay down on the couch and winced as the lumpy cushions dug into his back. He rearranged his body to fit the hollows and finally found a less wrenching position. Maybe it was the meds kicking in. Whatever. He fought to stay awake, but his body had sway over his will. He gave up and let himself sink into sleep.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Chris knew he was breaking every one of the Ten Commandments of Elizabeth Stone, but he didn't give a damn. He wasn't going to die, not from mending ribs and healing wounds, but he could easily be killed by the assassin stalking him and his team. He was angry, though. Angry enough to risk Dr. Stone's wrath and to silence Jackson with a snarled command, forcing his agent to drive him to the ATF offices. Chris was capable of bullying just about anybody into submission – maybe not Vin, but that was because Tanner, in Chris' boots, would have done the same bull-headed thing.

As he headed toward the elevator, he heard Nathan cussing under his breath. He stopped abruptly and turned to Jackson. "Damn it, Nathan. I'm not deaf and you haven't come up with a curse that's going to stop me in my tracks, so give it up."

Nathan barely avoided running into Chris. "I could call Elizabeth Stone."

"Yeah, you could. But her authority over me stops at Mercy hospital's doors."

"She'd call Travis."

Chris gave him a grim smile. "Nate, I'm not wrapped in cotton wool. Never have been, and you know it. Surrender gracefully and let's get on with this. I'm not going to strap on my guns and go hunting. I'll leave that to Vin and Sam. But I am going up to my office, and I am going to finish this once and for all." His voice sounded gentle, but his eyes were ocean-cold.

Nathan gave up and followed Chris into the elevator.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Chris' entrance into the office was a bit anti-climactic. JD was stuttering, Buck just stood with his hands on his hips and shook his head sadly, Ezra grinned. Josiah blessed himself and gave Chris a one-sided smile.

"Where are Sam and Vin?"

Buck inclined his head to the office. "Vin's in there. Sam's on the roof, scoping things out."

"Anything else?"

"Welcome back. I should 'a known a few bullets couldn't keep you down."

Chris smiled. "Damn straight." He opened his office door and let his eyes adjust to the dim light. What the hell was this? Then he saw Vin. "Damn it, Tanner," he sighed. He sat down at his desk and powered on his computer. He immersed himself in work, all the while aware of Vin's quiet breathing.

The tapping of the computer keyboard woke him. He opened one eye, and for an instant thought the last two weeks had been a particularly vivid dream, because there was Chris at his keyboard, hair tousled into unruly blonde spikes, and the sun long and gold through the blinds. Then he moved and everything hurt. Not a dream.

He sat up. "What goin' on?" he rasped.

Chris looked up. "Got tired of sitting on my ass at home and figured I'd sit on my ass here, instead."

"Right. How long was I out?"

"I've been here about half an hour and you were dead to the world before then."

"Shit." He stood up, put his gun back in his holster. "Where's Sam?"

"Still on the roof. And, Vin, you needed rest, so don't put any more guilt on your shoulders, okay?"

Vin wished he wasn't so transparent to Larabee, but then he always had been. He nodded and headed out the door. The other team members watched him leave. He knew that silence; the silence that surrounded him and told the world he was a hunter, and he would hunt, and kill, alone.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Sam waited on the roof. The sun was beginning to heat things up, and shimmering waves rose from the tarred roof. He stood against the meager shade offered by the access door, but even that was retreating. Below him, even though he couldn't see over the roof parapet, were other ATF agents, FBI, and DPD sharpshooters staking out the Federal building. An APB had been issued, but had not yielded any sightings of Vasiliev. Alerts to local emergency rooms and treatment centers had also been negative. Sam was sure that the sniper was out there, and thank God Travis had agreed to this blanket coverage. It was costing the government a fine penny. He hoped the gamble would pay off.

He heard footsteps on the stairwell and pulled back, drawing his sidearm.

"Sam." Vin's voice was a soft warning.

He holstered his weapon and let Vin through the door. "Thanks for the heads-up."

"Didn't want to go down to friendly fire." He smiled, but his eyes were shadowed and showed the strain of waiting and watching. He didn't look like a man who'd rested, much less slept, but he was ready for the fight. He wore his usual dark T-shirt and a Kevlar vest.

Sam nodded his approval. "I see you came dressed to kill."

Vin gave him a crooked smile. "Anything goin' on up here?"

"No." But Sam didn't look relieved. He looked like a shooter, all sharp edges and keen eyes.

"Ya feel it?"

Sam nodded. "He's out there, watching. He'll make his move before the net catches him." He tapped his mike, opening a channel to the agents below. "All units report."

He listened to the roll call. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed and Vin saw the color leave his face. "Unit twelve, do you copy? Please respond."

"Where?" Vin asked hoarsely.

"Garage, level five."

"Shit!" That was the level the ATF used. "He's goin' in!" Vin took off down the stairwell, followed closely by Sam.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin hated parking garages, too many places for ambushes, too many cars to provide hiding places, too many shadows. Add to that his awareness of the weight of concrete overhead, and it was a nightmare of a perfect storm.

Sam was a few paces ahead of him as they burst through the door to Level Five. Their weapons were drawn; Vin's Sig was still his in his shoulder holster, but his rifle was out and aimed to sweep across the first line of cars. Sam held up his fist, then motioned with two fingers, indicating that he was going left. Vin nodded, preparing to cover him.

Sam made his move and a staccato burst of gunfire sprayed the concrete, sending Colton skittering for cover. Vin had followed the bursts of fire visually. The bastard was good, no doubt about that, but Vin had something he didn't – patience. He gestured to Sam, telling him to lie low, and then he settled in behind a black Suburban with FBI plates. Great. The Feebs would ream him a new one, but he figured they owed him for a few lives he'd saved. He took out a small angled dental mirror from his vest and watched the reflection.

There was a slight tic on his earpiece and he tapped his mike. "Yeah?"

"Reinforcements are on the way." It was Chris' voice.

"Larabee!" Vin hissed. "Stay put. Sam 'n' I have got this."

But there was no response. Sweat dripped from Vin's temple and scrawled down his cheek. He didn't move, just held that mirror steady. He heard a vehicle coming up the ramp below, faster than it should be traveling. Shit! He cursed and knew that he would have to move. He had to draw Vasiliev out and let Sam take the shot. He wasn't going to let that bastard have one more chance at Larabee.

He set his sniper rifle down and drew his Sig. Several cars down, Sam saw him and shook his head. "I'll do it," he mouthed and Vin drew his finger across his throat. No. But Sam didn't listen. He darted across the shooter's path. A single shot was all it took to bring him down. Vin saw blood on his head. If he wasn't dead, he was down for the count.

Vin took a deep breath and moved.

The roar of a big motor reverberated through the garage and the smell of diesel exhaust fumes was thick. Overhead, the lights flickered and went out. Power box by the elevators, Vin thought. He dodged behind another Suburban.

There was a scream of rubber on the smooth concrete floor as the truck skidded around the last turn, the headlights bobbing and weaving. It screeched to a halt as the driver's door opened. Chris hit the floor in a roll and came up ready to shoot.

He was making himself the target; but Vin had been made a weapon long ago. He came out of the darkness and knocked Chris out of the way as Vasiliev rose up, his gun spraying bullets. Vin felt a bullet tear through the muscle of his left leg. It gave way, but the wound wasn't deep and Vin had a bead now on Vasiliev's location.

He rolled over, started crawling toward where Chris was kneeling, and had nearly made it when Vasiliev fired again. Pain seared through him as the bullet tore into his side. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

Chris started toward him. "No!" Vin tried to scream that this was what the shooter wanted, to use him as bait, but he had no voice. He lay there, gasping.

"Agent Larabee, this is Ivan Vasiliev. If you value your agent's life, you will put your gun down and come towards me with your hands raised. You have five seconds before I take another shot."

Vin heard the sound of metal sliding across the floor as Chris complied.

"And your other agent as well."

"He's dead," Vin rasped, with just enough force behind the words to make them audible in the now silent garage.

"And you have five seconds to live." The accented voice was as cold as the steppes. "Unless Agent Larabee calls off any other assistance."

Vin heard Chris speak clearly into his mike. "This is SAC Chris Larabee. I'm ordering all units to stand down. Repeat, stand down." Chris' gaze flicked to Vin. "Stay still," he voiced silently.

"Take off your wire and set it down. Kick it over to me. As well as your agent's handgun."

Chris knelt beside Vin. "Sorry, partner," he whispered. "We'll get out of this, just a little extra insurance, right?"

Vin knew what Chris was asking. He blinked his eyes twice.

"I've done what you want," Chris told Vasiliev.

"Good. Now, you will come with me, no?"

"You're calling the shots." Larabee's voice was cool and steady. He started walking toward Vasiliev with his hands raised. Vin could see him just out of the corner of his eye. "What now?"

"You die." Vasiliev stood, his perfect, beautiful rifle aimed at Chris.

Vin curled on the concrete like his belly was cramping. He tucked tightly, even though pain seared through him like a knife. He pulled his spare Sig from his ankle holster and counted to three in his mind, preparing himself for agony and possibly, death. At least he'd die with his gun in his hand, fighting for his friend.

He waited, heard Chris yell, "Now!" as Larabee threw himself to the left, Vin rose firing. His shot hit Vasiliev in his gun hand, sending his rifle to the concrete. It wasn't enough. Vasiliev had a back-up revolver. At the same moment as Vin fired his Sig at Vasiliev's heart, a red hole appeared in Vasiliev's forehead, and a spray of blood and brain tissue hit the wall behind him. He was splayed there for an instant, dead eyes open, and then he slid to the pavement.

Sam came out from behind the black Suburban, Vin's sniper rifle in his hand. He wiped the blood off his face with his sleeve, grinned at Vin. "Got the bastard." He spoke into his mike. "This is SAC Sam Colton. All units respond to the fifth garage level. The situation has been contained. We have an agent down. I repeat, the situation is contained. We have an agent down. Sam Colton. Out."

Vin was shaking. Chris was at his side, one hand pressing down on his leg, staunching the flow of blood. His other hand held Vin still. "Don't move, Vin. The medics will be here ASAP. Just don't move, okay?"

"Yeah." Vin could feel his strength ebbing. Sam's face came into focus above him. "Hey, Sam… though you were dead."

"I've got a thick skull," he said.

"Good eyes, too. Nice shot." Vin tried to smile.

"I guess I'm not as rusty as I thought." He stroked Vin's hair. "Be still, son, just be still."

And Vin went away into darkness…

Chapter 13

Dr. Elizabeth Stone strode into the waiting room. The scene was far too familiar: six men who she knew would be there, and one she hadn't expected. Sam Colton, whose presence next to Chris Larabee had temporarily superseded Buck Wilmington's. Now, that was a surprise…

All eyes focused on her, but it was Buck asking, "How's he doing, Doc?"

She tugged the surgical cap off her hair. "He's stable. But he needs blood, and, no, Chris, you are not able to donate. You're still recovering. I don't suppose any of you are universal donors." She knew the answer, so her eyes were on Sam.

"What's his blood type?" Sam asked.

"B-negative."

Sam pulled a card out of his wallet and handed it to her. "I'm a regular donor. The Red Cross in Boston will fax you the records. I signed a release form for the Bureau in case they needed blood for field agents."

"It's not that simple," Elizabeth said.

"Get the paperwork started. Give Tanner O-negative to keep him stable until it clears."

"You're giving me orders in my ER?" Elizabeth arched a brow at him.

"Just a suggestion, ma'am."

His dark eyes were twinkling at her, and Elizabeth felt a touch of heat in her cheeks. "It's a good one," she admitted.

Chris cleared his throat. "Excuse me, but I'd like to see Vin."

"He's pretty groggy," Elizabeth said. "And you only have five minutes."

"I'll take what I can get." He headed through the all too familiar doors.

"The rest of you will have to wait until tomorrow." She held up her hand to forestall their objections. "I'm sorry. Go home, all of you. He's stable, and once he is transfused, he should be fine. Agent Colton, you and I have some paperwork to take care of. Goodnight, gentlemen."

As Sam followed her, he thought that there were few things more sexy than a beautiful woman in a lab coat and scrubs.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Small sounds. The beep of a monitor, the steps of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum, the hushed whispers, the irritating ping of an IV pump gone dry… Vin cursed. He was in the hospital – again. He didn't feel much pain, but his mouth had that wooly, thick feeling that came from having morphine in his system. He hated it. Hated it almost as much as he hated being in pain. But at least he was alive, because if he wasn't this would be Hell…

He slowly opened his eyes, expecting the assault of bright daylight coming through the windows. Instead, they met the semi-darkness of night. He turned his head. Chris was there, sitting in the dim illumination of a reading light, a book open on his lap, his eyes closed. He looked pale and tired, but whole and uninjured. Vin stirred slightly and Larabee's eyes opened.

"Hey."

"Hey," Vin whispered. "You okay?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Chris laughed softly. He leaned forward, touched Vin lightly on the forehead. "No fever. That's good."

"Water?"

Chris held the glass and straw to his lips. "Take it easy."

"Chris, it ain't the first time I've been in a hospital. I know the drill."

"Just reminding you, that's all." He waited until Vin drank his fill, then sat back, his hands clasped on his knees. "You saved my life," he said quietly.

"'S my job. B'sides it ain't like you never saved mine." He sank back down on the pillows. "So, how'd it go down?" he asked.

"Vasiliev is dead. We don't know for sure that Ivanov hired him, but we're working on it. The case is going to the FBI and Interpol, so we're off the hook. I think Ivanov is going to have a very short-lived acquaintance with freedom."

"I'd have liked to be the one to lock him up," Vin sighed. "But I reckon the Feds'll do a good job on this one." He looked around the room. Something was niggling at the back of his mind, but his brain was too muddled to bring a coherent thought to the fore. His eyes lit on the bag of blood hung from the IV pole. It reminded him of… He thought for a moment. Blood. On Sam Colton's face; sheeting it with crimson.

"Where's Sam?" he asked, his voice tight.

Chris saw the panic in his eyes and gently gripped his shoulder. "Easy, Vin. He's fine. He had to have a few stitches, but that's it. It's his blood in the IV."

Vin thought about it for a moment. "Same type?"

"Yeah. Pretty odd to have three of us on the same team. Even Dr. Stone was surprised."

There was a knock on the door, and Sam Colton entered. He had a small white patch of gauze taped near his hairline and looked like he'd been living rough – jaw stubbled, eyes dark-circled, blood staining the collar of his shirt. But he looked at Vin and smiled. "Good to see you awake."

"It's good to be awake." Vin glanced from Sam, to Chris, and back to Colton. "I owe you Sam – for this." He lifted the arm where the IV was dripping rich, red blood.

"Pretty hard to owe somebody for an accident of genetics." He glanced at Chris. "You saved my life. If this is how I can repay it, then it's the least I can do."

"Still… Thanks." Vin's eyes closed. "Thanks for everything." His voice trailed off. "Mind if I take a rest?" he murmured.

"No, son, you've earned it." Sam touched his shoulder lightly. "See you in the morning." He doubted Vin heard those words.

Chris stood, stretched the kinks out of his spine and winced. His ribs and muscles were still tender. "He's got the right idea. We're all pretty ragged."

Sam scratched his chin. "I need a shower, a shave, a beer and about twenty-four hours of sleep."

"Sounds about right." They went out into the hall where the others were waiting. Chris smiled at them, proud to call them his team, his friends. "Vin's resting. He's good. I think we're all safe to go home and rest up before we start tackling the reports on this."

"You staying with me 'n' JD?" Buck asked.

"Thanks. I'll take you up on that."

Buck turned to Ezra, who was leaning against the wall, looking pretty worn to the bone. "Ezra, you want to join us?"

"If you don't mind."

"Would I have asked if I minded?" Buck asked, exasperated. "Come on." Ezra raised his hand in farewell and followed Buck and JD. Chris lingered for a moment to thank Nathan and Josiah. "Sam, you need a ride?" he asked.

"I'll catch a taxi."

Josiah laughed softly. "You haven't looked in a mirror. No self-respecting cabbie is going to pick you up, and the ones that would, you wouldn't want driving you anywhere."

Sam grimaced. He hadn't considered that. "Thanks, Josiah. I appreciate the offer."

Chris was finally satisfied that his team and Sam were all safe and accounted for, at least for that evening. Two beefy DPD officers were parked outside Vin's room, and while Chris didn't have any real worries on that account now that Vasiliev was dead, it was still good to see them.

"Goodnight, Sam." Chris offered his hand. "See you at the office tomorrow."

"I'll be there."

They left together, separating only when everybody was in their vehicles and on their way home.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Later, Sam stood at his window looking out at the city lights. He had showered and put on jeans and an old sweatshirt. His nightly glass of bourbon was in his hand. He had been considering things, and had reached a decision that he had to present to his family. He'd delayed long enough. In another hour it would be too late to call them.

He took out his cell phone and hit the speed dial to home. "Dusty?" His voice was a tired rasp in his throat. He took another sip of bourbon. "Good to hear your voice, son. Is Ryan there?"

"Yeah. Hang on. Hey, Ryan, it's Dad!" Sam winced at the shout in his ear. "Dusty, put this on speaker, okay?"

"Sure. When are you coming home?"

"We're wrapping things up. I'd say another three days."

"I guess we'll have to clean up from the party." Ryan's smart mouth interrupted his brother, and Sam laughed.

"I'll have a CSI crew out there to run the scene," he threatened.

Dusty snorted. "Yeah, right."

"Listen, boys, there's something we have to talk about."

"Dad, are you okay?"

"I'm fine. But something's happened, and I…" He took a deep breath. "How would you like to move to Denver?"

"Denver?"

"I'm thinking of postponing leaving the bureau for a while. An old friend of mine is the assistant director out here and I think he might have a place for me."

"Denver's cool."

"It's a long way from Boston," Sam warned. "I'd like you to come out here and scope things out once school is over for the year. How does that sound?"

"I'm in," Dusty said. "Ryan?"

"I'll check it out." Ryan was always the more cautious of his sons, but Sam thought there was an edge of excitement in his voice under the caution.

"If either of you decide you don't want this, you have to tell me. I'll go ahead with the plans I made before I came out here, okay?"

There was silence, then Dusty spoke up. "You really want this, Dad."

"I think so. Just remember there are options, and you guys will always come first."

"Hey, I'm up for a trip, right, Ryan?"

"Go for it, Dad."

"Okay. Thanks, guys. No parties."

"Yeah, yeah. We know. Goodnight, Dad."

"Goodnight, boys. I love you." So seldom said, but Sam meant it with all his heart. He closed his phone, finished his drink, and went to bed.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Chris was back at the hospital as the sun was rising. He stood by the window in Vin's room, listening to the steady beep of the monitors and Vin's quiet breathing. He was going to be fine, Elizabeth Stone promised. His wounds weren't severe, and his blood counts were holding steady. If he remained fever-free and stable, he'd be out of the hospital in a few days. A week of recuperation, and another two weeks of limited duty and he'd be as good as new.

Chris just wondered how he was going to keep from going completely gray from riding herd on his sharpshooter. His phone vibrated, and he went out into the corridor to take the call. It was Orrin Travis.

"Yes, sir?" Chris answered.

"That sounds mighty formal, Agent Larabee," Travis said and chuckled.

"Well, I am in a public place," Chris said. "Is something wrong?"

"No, not on this end. How is Vin?"

"Good. He should be out of here by the end of the week."

"Tell him to take it easy, and that's an order from the top."

Chris rolled his eyes, glad that Travis couldn't see his expression. Telling Vin to take it easy was like trying to put a bridle on a wild horse. He suddenly realized that the silence was growing. "That's not why you called," he said.

"No. Actually, last week I was handed a letter of resignation by Bob Kendall."

"Orrin, you better not be asking me to leave my team."

"Not at all! I value your contributions and my life too highly for that.

However, I am seriously considering asking Sam Colton to withdraw his retirement request."

"Do it. Colton is three times the agent Kendall is – smart, dedicated. He doesn't seem all that thrilled with leaving the Bureau. He'd be a damn fine addition. And I like the man, which is more than I can say for Kendall. We've had our run-ins."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

"Orrin, you're in charge, not me. Why ask?"

"Because I value your opinion. You've seen him in action. I just wanted to get some feedback. It's been a while since I've worked with Sam. I want to be sure I'm not looking at his performance through the haze of the past."

"You're not. But Boston is a long way from Denver."

"It's also a long way from DC."

Chris had to smile. "Yeah. Distance is a good thing when it comes to bureaucracy."

"Thank you for your opinion, Chris. I think we've just scored a valuable asset."

When Chris returned to Vin's room, Tanner was awake and blinking at the light filtering through the blinds. "Morning," he said.

"How are you feeling?"

"Sore. Tired."

"I'd say that's the way I'd expect you to feel."

"Heard you talkin' outside. Everything okay?"

"It seems to be. That was Orrin with a bit of news. Bob Kendall is retiring."

"'Bout time if you ask me." Vin and Kendall hadn't exactly seen eye-to-eye on several cases. Time had proven Vin right and Kendall wrong on every single point of contention. "What does that have to do with us?"

"Orrin is going to offer the job to Sam Colton."

"Really?" Vin's eyes lit up. "Hope you told him that was a good idea."

"I did." Chris slid a chair over to the bedside. "Partner, we need to talk."

"Why?" Vin was suddenly wary, unsure of what Chris was going to say.

"Thank you. You saved my life twice on this one. But, Vin, you've got to stop throwing yourself in front of bullets. Even Dr. Stone is beginning to wonder if you've got some sort of death wish."

Vin snorted. "You know me better 'n that."

"Do I?"

Vin looked at him levelly. "I got a lot to live for these days, Larabee."

Chris nodded, understanding. "It's not getting easier for any of us. You've got to start picking your battles a little more carefully, because life without you isn't something I want to think about. I've lost a lot of friends, but losing you is something the team and I can't take – not without good cause."

"You telling me to stand down?" Vin's jaw took on that stubborn Texas set that Chris knew too well.

He sighed, sat down. "No, I just want you to remember that you're only one man, but you're one man who has a team backing him up. That's what we're here for, that's why we're a team. Got it?"

Vin looked at him, measuring what Chris had said. "Reckon so."

"Good."

There was a knock on the door, and Elizabeth Stone stood there, Vin's chart in her hands. She didn't waste time on pleasantries. "God's better angels were looking after you. She said as she pulled out her stethoscope. "But you can't always depend on that."

Vin sighed. "Save it, Doc. Larabee already read me that riot act."

"Then do us all a favor and listen to him!" She made a few notes on his chart. "You should be out of here the day after tomorrow, if all goes well, so don't mess it up. Behave."

"Yes, ma'am," Vin said, looking wide-eyed and innocent which didn't fool Dr. Stone at all.

"Chris, can I see you outside?" She tilted her head and Chris followed her into the corridor.

"Is it about Vin? He has a right to know."

She sighed in exasperation. "My world does not revolve around you two even though it seems like it at times. No, it's not about Vin. It's not even about a medical issue."

"What?"

"Sam Colton." To Chris's utter amazement, she was blushing. "Is he… attached?"

"Not that I know of." Chris was still confounded.

"Good." She smiled at him and walked away.

In a day of surprises, that one took the cake.

Epilogue

A week later, the team gathered at Inez's to celebrate both Vin's release from the hospital and the capture of Ivanov and his gang of cutthroats. INTERPOL had come through in grand style, even Chris had to admit, on this one. They were facing charges on everything from racketeering and extortion, to smuggling, fraud and capitol murder. The case was officially stamped closed.

As Chris was heading out of the office, Sam Colton was coming down the corridor, a wide smile of his face. "I hear I have you to thank for a recommendation for Bob Kendall's job."

"You earned it." Chris held out his hand. "Welcome to Denver ATF."

"Thanks. I think my boys are going to like it here."

"You'll have to bring them out to the ranch. They can ride the horses, camp out… They'll be welcome."

"I'll take you up on that."

"I'm heading out to our local watering hole. Care to join us?"

Sam's smile grew wider. "I'll take you up on that, too."

As they walked into Inez's, Chris led the way to the team's table. It had been a long week of paperwork and inter-agency communications, and everybody was glad to see it come to an end, even Ezra, who found the legal wrangling to put the case against Ivanov together fascinating. He'd be going over to Europe in two weeks to present the evidence the ATF had gathered to the German court where the trial was to be held.

Even JD looked a little stressed-out from all the inevitable work that had been dumped on his electronic desk to be sorted out into files and databases that would be sent overseas prior to Ezra's departure. Buck, well, Buck never looked particularly stressed about anything. He was sitting in a long, relaxed slouch, but his eyes were fixed on Vin.

Hospital food never did agree with the sharpshooter. He looked too thin, still a bit pale, but there were no lines of pain in his face, and he was smiling slightly at something Josiah was telling him. Nathan seemed to be keeping an eye on them all without looking like he was being the grown-up at the kids' table.

Chris felt his burdens lift. "Got two more seats?" he asked.

Vin smiled when he saw Colton. "Hey, Sam! I heard the good news. Congratulations. It's good we won't be losin' you, after all."

"You just want to keep a supply of blood on hand, Tanner."

"Not me. I promised Chris I'd be real careful from now on." His eyes were dancing, and Chris knew in another week he'd be chafing to go out in the field. No matter how much things changed, that never would. It was why they did the job. But for that week, Vin would be safe.

What had started out to be about Chris, had been about all of them. It was about brotherhood and blood, faith and friendship.

Chris looked at Sam, reading much of the same in his expression. "C'mon, Sam, let me buy you a beer."

They joined the table, ordered another round. When the glasses had been passed, Sam stood up. He raised his glass to Vin. "Semper fi."

"Sua Sponte," Vin replied.

Chris stood as well. "To blood brothers."

"Amen, to that," Josiah's deep voice answered as they all stood and repeated, "Amen."

The End


End file.
